More Than a Little Crazy
by Squid7000
Summary: Taken prisoner of Dalton, Kurt's life is turned upside down. Now, with only the equal parts handsome and confusing Prince Blaine by his side, he must somehow prove his innocence-and prevent a war, while he's at it **ABANDONED**
1. Ambush

**Pairings: **_**Kurt/Blaine**__;_ Finn/Rachel, Brittany/Santana, Quinn/Sam; Mike/Tina

**Disclaimer: **Don't own ANYTHING and I never will. I once petitioned for the rights to Darren Criss and Chris Colfer, but that didn't end well for anybody . . .

**More than a Little Crazy**

_I know that it might sound more than a little crazy, _

_But I believe_

_I knew I loved you before I met you_

_I think I dreamed you into life_

_I knew I loved you before I met you_

_I have been waiting all my life _

– "I Knew I Loved You;" Savage Garden

**Ch.1 Ambush **

Once upon a time, in a far off land full of mystical wonders and magic, there lived three kingdoms. Hidden deep within the mountains, ruled over by an all-powerful dictator, was brutal McKinley. Atop a tall cliffside stood shabby, yet quaint Glee, governed by the people. And across the ocean, reigned by a fair royal family since its founding, sat the regal Dalton.

The three kingdoms existed in a precarious peace. Though spats were common among McKinley's current dictator and the king or queen of Glee (beginning when Glee's first king got the first perm), the conflicts did not prohibit business. And apart from trading and political affairs, Dalton mainly kept to itself. For years and years, 'twas the status quo.

But peace is nearly impossible to maintain – and there came a time when the newest queen of McKinley grew power-hungry. In her own kingdom, things always ran smoothly: every person and creature had their place, knew their place, and remained in their place. But this was not the case for her neighbors: while Dalton was orderly, its stubborn citizens_ insisted_ on equal rights for all; and Glee was just a big mess of . . . _messiness_. It was revolting.

So, naturally, the queen decided to fix this.

If the kingdoms were ruled by_ her_, there would be no mess, no chaos, no losers, or failures, or fatties. Simply triumph, winners, and order. At last, the world would run as it was intended to: with the mighty and beautiful on the top of the pyramid and the weak soiling their ugly faces in the dung-filled dirt.

But of all the things to get in her way – she never counted on _love_.

-X-

It was months before his eighteenth birthday, and Prince Blaine of Dalton was frightened out of his mind.

Granted, he didn't _show _this fear – that was out of the question. It was considered ludicrous for a man of his rank to feel afraid, at all; should anyone discover what he was actually scared of? He would never hear the end of it.

Peeking through a thick, velvet curtain, Blaine observed the Great Ballroom below him: the polished, gold and white marble surfaces; the dozens of circular tables laden with refreshments; the women clad in luxurious gowns and men in lush capes mingling, drinking, being merry; a tangible cloud of anticipation hanging low in the air.

"How do you feel?"

Blaine jumped, snapping the curtains shut, and spun around to come face to face with a man that looked very much like the prince: same bushy eyebrows, chiseled jaw line, unruly, ebony curls styled into place with indecent amount of product, and tragic, tragic height. Blaine's father. And all of Dalton's king.

"Well," Blaine answered. "I feel very well." _I think I'm going to vomit._

King Charles placed a sturdy hand on his son's shoulder. "I cannot stress to you enough the importance of this ball."

If it would not have been so entirely disrespectful, Blaine might have shrugged the king's hand off. "I know, Father. For the last time, I get it."

Steel gray eyes – one of the few traits Blaine did not inherit from his dad – peered into his own, harsh, domineering. "Do you, Son? Do you truly understand? If you did, would you not have tried harder to maintain your previous courtships?"

Under his father's grip, Blaine's shoulders stiffened. "None of my previous girlfriends would have made dignified queens, and you know it."

"Perhaps not. But you have had very few girlfriends for a boy who has been allowed to court since the age of fourteen. Sometimes, it is as if you do not even care about the issue –,"

"That's not true!" snapped Blaine, barely feeling sorry for speaking to a dignitary in such a manner. "What if maybe I care too much? I want the perfect queen to bear my children, rule my nation, and I am unwilling to settle for anything less!"

King Charles clenched his jaw; released a low, resigned sigh. "In that ballroom are _all_ the eligible noble women from most every nearby kingdom. You will go out there, mingle, dance, whisk away to broom cupboards – frankly, I don't care. Just see who interests you, establish relationships, make positive impressions. We can talk politics later. Understood?'

Blaine held his breath, wondering if he should continue to press the issue. Finally, he bowed his head in submission; confrontation never was his strong point. "Yes, sir."

The king nodded curtly, before murmuring something to a passing servant. The servant nodded, hurriedly disappeared through the curtain. A trumpet sounded and the buzz of chattering guests silenced instantly.

A voice boomed, "Ladies and gentlemen, King Charles Anderson the Third of Dalton!"

There was a low murmur, and Blaine imagined everyone kneeling out of respect. Blaine's father straightened his shining crown, ran a finger over his moustache, and walked onto the balcony, the hem of his lavish cloak whipping behind him.

"On behalf of my country, I thank you all for gathering here today."

He droned on and on about the history of Dalton, past kings and queens, yada yada yada; Blaine eventually tuned him out until –

"I now present to you my son and future King of Dalton, Prince Blaine Anderson!"

Thunderous applause; and Blaine found himself stepping through the curtain and into the blaring lights and bright stares, blistering on his face. Breathing deeply, he walked at a measured pace from the balcony, down the winding staircase, sealing his terrible fate. He took a seat at the head table, clothed in eggshell cloth and sparkling dinner plates. His mother, and younger sister and brother already sat, along with the rest of the royal family (which stretched from great-great-great-great aunts to fourth cousins twice removed). His father soon joined them.

"Dig in!" King Charles ordered. The guests gratefully obliged, tearing at pork, chicken, buttered biscuits, and all sorts of good foods. Blaine found he did not have much of an appetite.

Over an hour passed, while Blaine pretended to be happy and hungry. He kept mostly quiet, allowing others' conversations to wash over him: his mother and sister predicting fall fashions; Father educating Blaine's brother on the different kingdoms' representatives in attendance; uncles and aunts and cousins trying to advise him which ladies were suitable for marriage, which were good for a night or two of fun, and which were just plain trouble. It was exhausting to merely listen to.

At last – _at long, long last_ – King Charles set down his fork and knife, and folded his napkin; receiving the wordless signal, dozens of servants bustled into the ballroom to clean the food away, and pull the round tables to the perimeter of the room.

"And now," Blaine's father announced, casting the prince a hard look, "we dance."

Blaine stood. He knew an order when he heard one.

Classical music began to swirl through the air and Blaine tentatively navigated the crowd. Several women batted their eyelashes, but he ignored them. He should choose the perfect woman to dance with, he told himself. And maybe – _just maybe _– he was stalling a little, too.

Finally, he saw her. Standing off to the side with two other bored-looking young women, as more than one man cast hopelessly infatuated glances her way. Pastel-colored gown, honey blonde ringlets pulled effortlessly away from her face, soft features. And a head held high. Perfect.

The woman saw him coming and tugged on the sleeves of her companions' dresses. All three stood a little straighter, anticipating the handsome prince's arrival.

"Good evening," Blaine grinned suavely. He bowed low at the waist. "I am Prince Blaine."

"Good evening to you, Prince," the woman Blaine's sights were set on said. She seemed to be the trio's leader of sorts, and had a voice like cream. "I am Princess Quinn Fabray. This is Princess Santana, and Princess Brittany." She gestured to the dark-haired, dark-skinned girl on her right, and the impossibly fair-haired and fair-skinned girl on her left, respectively. "We come from the kingdom of McKinley."

Blaine's eyebrows climbed. "You three are sisters?"

Princess Brittany gasped; bent around Quinn to whisper to Santana, "We are?"

Princess Santana rolled her eyes. "No, Britt."

"McKinley has many princesses," explained Princess Quinn, "none of which are actually blood related. Queen Sylvester, McKinley's dictator, picks who she thinks will be the best future rulers when they are young children, and raises them as her own, before sending them off to marry noble men. With this tactic, she has infiltrated thirty-two kingdoms across the world –,"

"And eight major corporations," finished Princesses Santana and Brittany. They high-fived.

Blaine gaped at the trio, digesting this information. "Wow," he said. "That's, er . . . well." Attempting to smooth over how awkward he now felt (McKinley sounded an awful lot like a cult), he offered his hand to Princess Quinn. "May I?"

"You may," she answered smoothly, smirking as her fellow princesses seemed to deflate and allowing him to lead her onto the hardwood dance floor. He set his hand on her slim hip and then they were gliding through the room, between other waltzing couples, and past envious men and women alike. Blaine tried to block their sneers, focusing on Princess Quinn's deep green eyes.

"You're very short," she suddenly remarked. "Shorter than any grown human man I have ever met."

Annoyance set in and Blaine did his best not to glare, for it was never acceptable to glare at lady. "And you obviously don't understand common courtesy."

Quinn's sculpted brow arched, but she did not comment on his retort (which probably wasn't much more gentlemanly than glaring would have been, he now reflected). "Perhaps it you should dance with Princess Brittany. She's tall and it would do best for you to marry a tall woman. That way, your sons will be taller than you and won't have to wait until mere months before they take over the crown to find a wife."

"What does my height have to do with my inability to find a wife?"

"Short men are very unattractive."

Blaine found that rather offensive. "Maybe I want short kids. They'll be able to overcome adversity and whatnot. Plus, my father married as tall a woman as he could get, and look at all the good it did me."

"Touché." Quinn smirked and Blaine decided that, despite her blatant disregard for short people's feelings, he kind of liked her.

Through the bobbing heads, Blaine noticed his father's watchful eyes following their waltz. Casually, the prince dipped his head closer to Quinn's ear and whispered, "What do you say we go somewhere? Alone?"

He had to grant it to her; Princess Quinn's breathing barely faltered. She tilted her own head, so her glossed lips ever so slightly brushed his ear. "One day, Prince, I am going to be the queen of a grand nation. Perhaps it will be yours. Now, I will disappear with you for the sake of appearances, but I am a _princess_. Not some common skank you can find on the street corner."

Blaine swallowed, eyes darting to and fro, scanning the crowd. So many people to please, so many duties to carry out. If he could just . . . leave it all for a little while . . . .

"Duly noted," he murmured, dropping his hand from her hip and tugging her through the mob. Women flushed and glanced away from them, while men swallowed their grins and nodded out of respect and encouragement. They knew what the prince and princess were about to do, and no one dared get in their way. As it should be.

The pair reached the back doors that led to the gardens and Blaine sighed in relief: escape was close at hand. But just as he was about to usher Quinn into the night –

_BANG!_

The floors shook and the walls rattled; Quinn yelped, clutching the prince to remain upright; and Blaine saw the huge, oak doors on the other end of the ballroom spring open. In stumbled a very familiar young man, dark hair sopping wet from the rain outside. He collapsed to the floor.

"WES!" Before he knew it, Blaine was pushing Quinn out of the way and rushing to his friend, elbowing aside anyone remotely close to inhibiting his quest. Finally reaching the knight, he kneeled at Wes' side – and choked. Wes' entire right shoulder was coated in hot, sticky blood. "Oh my god, Wes! Wesley, talk to me! What happened to you?"

Slowly, Wes opened his jet-black eyes, wide with terror and pain, and in an impossibly quiet voice that somehow managed to echo off the walls, he whispered, "Dalton's under attack!"

-X-

Election Day in the land of Glee was fast approaching, which meant –

"Excuse me, pardon me, out of my way! I need to – Kurt! Kurt Hummel, I need to talk to you!"

Well, quite frankly, it meant Rachel Berry. Lots and _lots _of Rachel Berry.

Biting back a groan, Kurt turned to face possibly the most annoying Countess to grace this sweet Earth. She was pretty, sort of – cascading brown hair, bottomless chocolate eyes, petite body, overlarge nose (for all Kurt knew, a big nose was a very attractive quality to some people). But appreciating her beauty became ridiculously difficult when one was assaulted with her ego and overbearing personality on a daily basis.

"What do you want, _Milady_?" The words rolled from his tongue, dripping with sarcasm.

Rachel immediately passed over an unbelievably thick stack of colored parchment paper. Curious, he thumbed through them: each flyer was decorated in gold stars, and bore Rachel's bright smile and the goofy grin of a (kind of) cute boy, along with bubble letters declaring: DON'T BE MEAN – VOTE HUDSON AND BERRY FOR KING AND QUEEN!

She _had_ to be kidding.

"And what exactly," Kurt asked, voice measured and patient, "am I expected to do with _these_?"

"I need you to hand these out to the knights, down by the sea," answered Rachel primly. "Finn says he's not allowed to anymore, so –,"

She was cut off by the force of Kurt shoving the flyers back into her hands. "I'm not your servant, Berry," he coolly said. "I don't have to do everything you say."

Rachel sputtered. "Of course not! Slavery is wrong and when Finn and I are elected as King and Queen of Glee –,"

"_If_ you and Finn are elected as King and Queen of Glee."

"One of my first missions will be to investigate and disband slavery in neighboring kingdoms. But anyway, don't you think it's the least you could do, in order to repay my family for their generous hospitality?"

A twinge of guilt stung Kurt's heart, but he pushed it away, saying, "First off, my dad, stepmom, and I only have to live with you because _you_ insisted every last cent of our money be spent on campaigning for the last five years. So, no, I am not obligated to repay you by carrying out your mundane tasks."

He was about to turn on his heel and continue in the direction he had previously been traveling: Mercedes Jones' house. He couldn't wait to drink the freshly squeezed lemonade Artie would surely have provided for their little get-together, discuss King Schuster's latest attempt at reinstating the Fine Arts with Tina, and laugh over the train wreck that was Rachel Berry with his three (and sometimes only) friends.

Of course, Rachel had other ideas.

"Wait!" she exclaimed, grabbing his arm. "Ok, that was rude. I'm asking you to hand out the flyers, not as repayment, but because you want to help your stepbrother and . . ." she held her left hand up, so he could first lay eyes on the huge diamond adorning her ring finer, "future stepsister-in-law?"

His mouth fell open; he watched in fascination as the jewel caught the few sunrays filtering through the clouds and splayed rainbow sparks across the pavement.

"No," he said. "When?"

"Just this morning!" she squealed, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. "I wanted to tell everyone right away, of course, but Finn wants to keep it low-key. But I had to tell you! Will you help plan the wedding? Though I'll naturally have the final say in everything, your opinion could be valuable, and . . ."

She continued to prattle on, but Kurt tuned her out. He was going to plan a wedding for a _countess_! A countess he didn't particularly like, but still . . . his name would be out there. And once his name was out there . . . things were bound to change.

Mercedes, Artie, and Tina could wait.

"Alright!" he interrupted, full well knowing it was extremely rude to interrupt a countess, and not especially caring. "There's so much we need to discuss. First, when do you plan on having the wedding? Before the election, obviously, so I think we should –," He stopped short at the sight of her big, doe eyes.

"Oh, give me those!" he snapped, snatching the flyers from her roughly and pushing past her in the direction of the sea.

"Thank you, Kurt!" called Rachel.

"I hate you!" Kurt called back.

"That's a small price to pay for greatness!"

Kurt rolled his eyes.

As he walked the streets of Glee to the ocean, like he had done so many times before, Kurt saw many others he knew out for a stroll; and like _they_ had done so many times before, they steadily ignored him. It hardly mattered that his stepbrother or future stepsister-in-law were close to royalty, or that King Schuster had passed an abundance of laws to nearly guarantee equal treatment to all; Kurt was still the bottom of the food chain.

In the rare, black moments when he could freely admit to himself that he was hardly the confident, proud boy he tried to act like, Kurt wondered if things would be different if he was, well . . . different.

But he wasn't about to change anytime soon. And so he supposed he would never know.

At last, Kurt reached the cliffs; a breeze, thick with salt and impending rain, nipped at his nose and tousled his perfectly sculpted bangs. For a moment, he simply observed the ships, swaying in the clear ocean, loose sails flapping in the breeze, tall masts reaching into the sky. Men in uniforms loaded cargo onto the ships, laughing and chatting and looking remarkably youthful as they chased each other across the sand. Seahawks cawed, flying farther into the air than man could ever dream of reaching, before zooming down again, as if simply to taunt the workers with their skill.

Kurt loved the seashore.

Smiling (like a buffoon, he imagined), he took the sloping path down the cliffside to the beach, careful not to walk too fast or dislodge too many pebbles, for fear of starting an avalanche and tarnishing this beautiful haven. Reaching sea level, he spotted Finn Hudson's bulky frame towering above the others.

Kurt was just about to call out, when abruptly – before he could scream, or flail, or make sense of _what the heck was going on _– something pinned him to the rock face. Something; as in a massive, hulking body.

"Get off –," he started, but then a hand was covering his mouth and he had no other choice but to stare wordlessly into a pair of beady eyes, cold and terrified as death.

"_Don't scream_," Knight Karofsky's gruff voice grunted. "I'm just gonna talk to you."

Slowly, he lifted his hand. Kurt still felt the need to snap, "Get your filthy hands off me," as he straightened his hair.

"What do you want, Karofsky?" asked Kurt. "I thought you'd gone back to McKinley ages ago –,"

"I did. But I'm back here on business. I just wanted to make sure you didn't . . ." Even though they were clothed in the shadows, and already whispering, Karofsky looked hesitant to continue.

Kurt sighed heavily; the last thing he wanted was to remember _The Incident_ – but maybe they could put it behind them, once and for all. "No, I didn't tell anyone about what transpired on your last visit to Glee. And I don't plant on it, either."

Karofsky seemed to relax. But only just.

"What are you even doing here?" Kurt continued. "Don't you have better things to do? Battles to fight? Girlfriends to pretend you're actually attracted to?"

Karofsky growled low in his throat, but Kurt wasn't about to back down.

"I thought all the men already knew," said Karofsky. "Oh, but that's right – _women _don't mess around with politics."

"Well, that explains why you're so stupid –,"

"We're attacking Dalton."

Kurt's eyes widened by half a mile. "_Dalton_? Isn't the prince having some sort of ball to find a wife tonight? Why would you attack – doesn't Queen Sylvester have some of her girls there?"

"Yeah. So she's attacking them. Some kind of reverse psychology thing, I think. I'm kind of confused, actually."

"_Shocker_." Once again, despite how inappropriate it was to speak in such a way to people of higher rank than him, Kurt couldn't fight off the sarcastic edge in the single word. An edge Karofsky immediately noticed.

"Don't push me, Hummel!"he growled, raising his fist. His eyes fell on the flyers in Kurt's hands. "What are those?" He ripped one from the stack, read it; a cruel smirk colored his lips. "Elections are coming up, huh? You should run. You'd be a shoo-in for Queen." Finally having taken some semblance of control back, Karofsky turned and made his way back to the ships.

Kurt watched him go, fighting tears that threatened to explode from memories.

_It's over_, he reminded himself. _You can't change what happened._ _Focus on something else. Something bigger. _

_Dalton._

There had to be more to the story than what Karofsky explained. Why did Queen Sylvester have her knights come to Glee, when he was certain she had plenty capable ships of her own? And how on earth did said knights get anti-violence King Schuster and easygoing Finn Hudson to agree to an attack? Then again, maybe they didn't agree. As much as he loved and admired them both, they could tend to be a bit . . . easily misled.

Thinking that perhaps he should let Finn know exactly what was going on, he began to make his way toward his clueless stepbrother with new resolve. Rachel's campaign flyers remained limp and forgotten in his hands.

"Move it or lose it, kid!" a voice barked and then a heavy box was being shoved into Kurt's thin arms.

"What?" Kurt gasped, the wind nearly knocked out of him. He looked at the box, full of swords, bullets, and other deadly-looking objects. "No, I'm not –,"

But he was unable to protest more as soldiers rammed into his back, hustled along, forcing him to stumble onto the waiting deck of one of the docked ships. It swayed beneath his landlubber feet, causing him to nearly collapse. Rough hands grabbed the back of his vest and hoisted him up, pushed him to the side. A large, beefy man in a captain's hat glared at him. "I need those boxes unloaded and passed out to the soldiers STAT! And where's your uniform? You look like a girl dressed in drag!"

Kurt glanced down at his ensemble: a wine-colored vest tied tight with black lace, cream-colored tunic, and form-fitting leather pants. Sure, they weren't much, but . . . "What's wrong with my clothes?"

The man was already moving away.

"Wait, no!" Kurt called after him. "I have to get off! I'm not meant to be here!"

"That's what they all say! Queen Sylvester recruited you as a deckhand, and that's that!"

Before he could respond, a group of men nearly ran him over in their quest for weapons. He tried to push past them, or yell for help, but each soldier was just so darn_ big_ and_ loud _and _strong_. It was like trying to swim upstream the most powerful river in existence.

Exhausted, Kurt stopped fighting the current and handed out weapons from the box, hoping this would speed his escape. However, just as he was finishing with the impertinent group, the ship gave an abrupt heave and Kurt staggered backwards, nearly tipping over the side. At first, he had no idea what was happening – maybe his breakfast bagel didn't sit well in his stomach? – but then he noticed. The ship was gradually swinging more beneath him and the shore appeared farther away.

Panic clenched his stomach, his heart, his lungs.

"What's happening?" Kurt asked no one in particular. His arm flew out and stopped a soldier in his tracks. "You! What's happening?"

The soldier gave him an odd look. "We're setting sail, of course!"

"No!" Kurt turned his stricken eyes to the crew member. "Can the ship turn back? We've got to turn back! I don't belong here!"

Seemingly sympathizing, the soldier patted Kurt's shoulder. "Yeah, that's what I told Captain Tenaka when I was first recruited, too. But don't worry. It gets easier."

And with that, he left Kurt alone. So, so alone.

Kurt had always harbored a deep love for the ocean. It was made of so many different, odd components, all acting in tandem to create something more beautiful and powerful than could be imagined; like the world's loveliest harmony. He had dreamed of escaping Glee and setting sail around the world, to see new sights and ideas, explore new oceans. But not like this. Not because of an _attack_.

Overwhelmed, Kurt buried his face in his hands. He wasn't about to cry. He _couldn't _be. There was still a chance of getting off this thing before the Apocalypse started.

Struck by one last, futile hope, Kurt caught the arm of a deckhand passing with a mop. "Excuse me? Is Finn Hudson on this ship?"

"No, sir," the other boy said. "Sorry." He made to move away.

"Wait!" Kurt's fingers tightened around the boy's elbow. "Is . . . is Dave Karofsky?"

"No, sir. Both Knight Karofsky and Captain Hudson are on the Gene Kelly. We're on the Journey." He jerked his elbow impatiently.

"One last thing. You wouldn't happen to believe me if I said I don't belong on this ship, would you?" Kurt tried. But the attempt was weak, even to his own ears.

The deckhand simply laughed before finally pulling free. And Kurt had to face the facts.

He was stuck on a ship that was about to attack a neighboring kingdom, and no one would listen to him.

Well, _shit_.

-X-

Perhaps because he was dreading it, or perhaps because Dalton was not as far away as Kurt previously believed, but sooner rather than later the hills of the shore were silhouetted against the brilliant sunset. A light drizzle fell and the waves seemed angry, crashing loudly against the ship's sides. Kurt sat huddled in the shadows of a mast, ignored in his new sailor uniform, tears and ocean mist and raindrops wet on his cheeks. His breath caught in his throat when he noticed the docks pulling closer, along with two other ships from Glee. Finn must have been on one of them . . . maybe Kurt could find him and they could get to safety . . .

But Kurt had misjudged the McKinleyons. There was no hesitation, no wait, no mercy. Simply a short call of, "Man the cannons!" And then –

"FIRE!"

_BOOM!_

Cannon balls from all three ships erupted simultaneously into the quiet night. Screams – Kurt clenched his eyes as tight as they would go, trying desperately not to imagine the innocent civilians of the kingdom, in for the shock of their lives. Tried not to put himself in their shoes.

It was just so _wrong_.

Now, Kurt had known a lot of wrong in his life. His mother was stolen from him so young. He was laughed at, called names, bullied from the time he could talk and people first heard the distinctly feminine lilt of his voice. He had been misunderstood and unaccepted – and that was _before _Karofsky decided to make his life a living hell. So, when something was really, truly wrong, Kurt was usually the first – and possibly only – one to tell.

But this wasn't even subtle wrong. Just big, flat out _wrong_.

Shouts of "IT'S AN AMBUSH!" echoed from the land, carried in the wind, and, just as the rain began to pour torrentially, there was another _BANG!_ Gasps, yells – but this time from _his _side.

Kurt scrambled to his feet; the floor was tilting and he stumbled forward into other men. "What's going on?" he yelled. "What's happening?"

"Their cannons were already loaded! They got the ship in its sweet spot!" the young man at his side answered – the deckhand Kurt asked about Finn and Karofsky. "We're capsizing! Happens all the time, you've just got to abandon ship!"

Sure enough, all the crew members were rapidly diving into the ocean and swimming toward the other two ships; they clung to dangling ropes and were hoisted up to the decks; the Daltonians reloaded their cannons and prepared for battle.

"What – no – I can't swim!" Kurt cried.

The deckhand cast him a mystified glance. "Then why are you here?"

"I ALREADY TOL D YOU I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE!"

The ship gave a violent lurch – and Kurt had no choice but to tumble into the glorious ocean for the first time.

It was ice cold, yet burned like fire licking at his legs, his arms, his chest, his eyes. His hair floated around him dreamily, and somewhere deep inside his subconscious mind, Kurt wondered if there was a way to make his hair move like that on a regular basis.

He bobbed to the surface, dragged in a desperate breath, before he was pushed down again. The waters were shallow; he hit the seafloor and the jagged rocks dug at his sides. Thank goodness he still wore his peasant clothes underneath the overlarge uniform; otherwise, who knew what damage could have been done.

Sand, panic, current, no more air – he blacked out.

Which was why he felt rather than saw the tentacles wrap around his middle and drag him, up or down he couldn't tell.

Suddenly, fresh air surrounded him and he could gulp down breaths between the choking coughs that wracked his body. Water rushed up his throat, burning, never-ending.

And then it was over. No more water to cough up, enough air to breathe, and his vision was capable again. The first thing he noticed was that the other two ships were nowhere in sight. _When did that happen? _he thought hazily.

The next thing he noticed was that he was surrounded by angry-looking men.

With swords.

_Pointed_ _straight at him_.

Shit didn't even _begin _to cover it.

-X-

A/N: This story is dedicated to those who need Klaine and need it now;)

Recently, I rediscovered my love of fairy tales. I also discovered that fairy tales with Kurt and Blaine as the main characters were, like, the most awesome ones of all. I just couldn't get enough, but, alas, I ran out of them. So, in a hazy fit of Klaine deprivation, I decided to take a crazy leap of faith and write one. I hope it provides some entertainment for any of you who decide to read it!

Also, in case you didn't gather, the title comes from Savage Garden's "I Knew I Loved You." Lovely song:)

**NEXT CHAPTER: **Prince Blaine must conduct the trial for the new prisoner. Not exactly a way to make a good first impression.


	2. Ocean Eyes

**Disclaimer: **Nothing belongs to me.

**More Than a Little Crazy**

**Ch. 2 Ocean Eyes**

Ever since he was little, Kurt wondered what it would feel like to be so famous, so _important_, that he had his own personal bodyguards. One thing was certain – it would be _awesome_.

Granted,_ this_ wasn't exactly what he had in mind.

A heavily armed man stood to his left, right, front, and behind, escorting him through the streets like he actually posed a threat (something Kurt seriously doubted, seeing as his thigh was about half the size of each of his guards' necks). Civilians came out of their houses, clutching spouses and children, crying and jeering as he passed under the pouring rain. The urge to shout a mass apology to the night weighed upon his lungs, heavy, but he forced it to lighten with every ounce of sheer willpower he possessed. He was innocent, this was all an accident – nothing to apologize for.

Still, he couldn't help casting a sorry look at a mother and her four quivering children. Soon, the record was going to be set straight. Soon, they would understand.

Kurt was loaded into a horse drawn carriage with a roof and tinted black windows. It was stifling, uncomfortable as the guards squeezed next to him – not at all romantic, like he'd once imagined. The carriage took off, jiggling down the bumpy road. Kurt allowed his eyes to drift closed, picturing the beaches and wild forests of Glee; his house, his room, his few friends, his stepmom; his dad.

His _dad_. How would his dad possibly cope at the loss of his son? Would it make him sick again, make him lose hope like he had when he first lost his wife? What if –?

_No_, Kurt scorned. _He hasn't lost you yet – and he's not going to._

The carriage slowed to a stop. The men pushed him out onto a grassy field and Kurt was left gaping up at a magnificent castle. Blue marble, and red wood, and gorgeous oak accented it; turrets reached like insatiable fingers into the clouds; stained-glass windows filtered candlelight in glorious rainbow patterns. It sure gave the aged, scruffy castle of Glee a run for its money.

But even though Dalton's castle was beautiful, pristine, and pretty much a boy like Kurt's dream home – it was different than Glee in more ways than one. Whereas King Schuster's abode always felt lived in, visited, loved – this place had a distinctly impersonal aura.

Someone shoved him between the shoulder blades and Kurt stumbled up the granite path to the castle doors, looking remarkably like monsters awaiting their feast.

-X-

The doors to the hospital wing burst open and in stormed Knight David; tall, black, strong. His dark eyes shone with pure compassion. "How is he?"

Blaine glanced at Wes, lying shirtless on the cot as a nurse tended to his mangled shoulder. A light sheen of sweat coated his forehead and his face was contorted in pain.

"He's holding on," said Blaine. He turned to his other best friend. "What happened?"

"There was an attack from three ships. Cannons, and then a bit of gunfire. Wes got hit in the shoulder with a bullet," David explained.

Blaine shook his head in disgust. "Are they still out there?"

"Nah." David sneered. "We capsized one of their ships and they took off as fast as they could."

_Cowards_, Blaine thought darkly.

"We managed to capture one of their men, though. That's actually why I'm here. They've brought the kid in for questioning and the king wants you there." David lowered his voice a smidgen. "I think it's a test of some sort, just to warn you."

Blaine nodded, standing tiredly. It was a testament to their friendship that Blaine allowed David to see him at anything less than his utter best. "Thanks a lot, David. Look after him for me?"

"Always."

The prince exited the infirmary and headed toward the Great Ballroom, where he knew the prisoner would be prosecuted. That was usually part of the punishment: the humiliation of being tried in a public setting. This tactic sometimes bothered Blaine – sure, what these criminals did was disgusting . . . but weren't the good people of Dalton above stooping to their level?

Walking into the ballroom was much different the second time around. Gone was the happy air, the excitement bubbling like water in a witch's cauldron. Now, unnerved whispers rippled through the room and the partygoers kept to the perimeter.

Blaine approached the head table once again and took his usual seat for council meetings, between his father and mother. He stared cautiously down to the center of the room, where a man . . . _boy_ . . . was flanked by guards. He was very slim and looked to be almost – though not quite – as short as Blaine, with wet brown hair obscuring his face from view. In an overlarge sailor uniform and soaked to the bone, he didn't look like a cruel hearted villain who would ambush an unsuspecting nation, but rather a trembling little boy, scared out of his mind – much like Blaine himself often felt.

"One thing first, son," Blaine's father murmured.

"Hmm?" Blaine hummed.

"Today you will be leading the trial."

Still focused on the boy, it took a moment the king's words to process. But when they did, Blaine was outraged. "I – what!" He whirled around to protest; King Charles cocked his head subtly, indicating their audience. And a noble man never lost composure in front of an audience.

Blaine forced himself to relax. This wasn't the first time he had led a trial, or spoken publicly. The only real differences were that, now, he had to rely on knowledge and intuition without the guidance of a script, and there was a bit more at stake.

No big deal. Right.

Clearing his throat, Blaine began in his most authoritative tone, "Prisoner, state your name."

The boy murmured something; Blaine could just make out the dent of his lower lip drop and lift.

Blaine didn't even spare the king a nervous glance. He could do this; it was what he was brought up to do: to lead, to judge – it was in his blood. "Speak up, prisoner!"

"Kurt Hummel. My name is Kurt Hummel." His voice was like a male, commoner version of Princess Quinn's: lilting and creamy, proud, but a bit more vulnerable and a smidge less snotty.

"Let us see your face, Kurt Hummel. Raise your eyes," Blaine ordered. For a moment, he thought the boy would refuse, continue to stare determinedly at his shoes – but then he tilted his head so his bangs fell back from his face, exposing his cold eyes for the first time. And Blaine felt his resolve quiver.

Those eyes, poring with unadulterated venom into Blaine's, were fascinating – blue, some green, a little gray. The colors seemed to swirl over one another, fighting for acknowledgement and dominance, ebbing and flowing furiously just like the ocean. After years of gazing hard at alluring princesses, trying to feel something –_ anything_ – Blaine could easily admit that this young, prison boy possessed the most gripping pair of eyes he had ever set sights on.

It was quite embarrassing, to tell the truth, but Blaine could _feel _himself drinking in Kurt Hummel's face, almost hungrily – the smooth lines, alabaster skin, rose red lips. To be ridiculously frank, he was . . . _beautiful_. Absolutely stunning. Which was odd, since never before had Blaine applied either of those adjectives to another man. But there was simply no other way to put it.

Kurt Hummel stared at him, a bemused crease between his arched eyebrows, a tiny frown twisting his lips. What was he seeing? Did he feel an intense, electric connection, too?

Blaine wasn't aware of the uncomfortable murmurings of the Council and crowd, until his father pointedly cleared his throat. Blaine started, troubled at how easily he had allowed himself to succumb to distractions. _Focus, Blaine. Focus._

"How old are you, Kurt Hummel?" he continued, relieved when his voice only slightly cracked.

"Sixteen," said Kurt. "And a half. Soon to be seventeen."

_Oh my god._ He was sixteen. Sixteen! That was younger than Blaine . . . he was just a kid . . .

"Where do you come from, sir?" Blaine forced from abruptly chapped lips.

Kurt seemed to hesitate, glancing around as if searching for escape routes. Apparently, he found none. "I come from the kingdom of Glee."

Blaine exchanged a glance with King Charles; he was certain that there were very few, if any, nobles from Glee attending the ball tonight. Though it held its own, the relatively small nation was far from prestigious. Was that why they attacked?

As if he knew exactly what the prince was thinking, Kurt blurted, "We didn't attack you, though. I mean, not entirely."

"Oh?" Blaine asked, eyebrows climbing.

Uncle Edgar, who had been on the Council almost as long as the king himself, spoke. "We have it on good authority that the ships attacking Dalton were Glee originals. And at the site of the wreckage, these were found." He carefully produced a stack of mottled papers from an envelope; through the streams of ink and salt, Blaine could make out the words, _Hudson and Berry for King and Queen_. He knew enough about politics to quickly catch his uncle's drift.

"Finn Hudson is a respected knight and Rachel Berry a well-known countess of Glee," Blaine said. "They are also strong contenders for King and Queen, are they not?"

"Well, yes . . ." Kurt sputtered, "but that doesn't mean –!"

"Did they order the attack? Was it some sort of twisted campaigning mechanism?"

"No!" Kurt snapped harshly. "Now if you'll please let go of all that egotistical testosterone and_ listen_ to me . . ." Blaine blinked; how could anyone of Kurt Hummel's position speak before the Council in such a rude manner? "I have good reason to believe that my nation was tricked into co-initiating an attack on Dalton by Queen Sylvester of McKinley."

The uproar was instantaneous. A good percentage of the noble men's wives must have once been part of Queen Sylvester's cult – er, family – and, thus, they took great offense to this notion. Princess Quinn stepped forward, olive eyes flashing.

"I have lived under the care of Queen Sylvester for the last fourteen years of my life," she said with remarkable grace and power for a woman, "and, therefore, I know she would never commit such a heinous act." There was a murmur of agreement and Blaine glanced briefly to the girls flanking Quinn. He saw it then. It wasn't much and it was probably a trick of the light, but he could have sworn Santana's lips quirked devilishly – like she was hiding a secret – as she exchanged a loaded glance with Brittany. But just when his mind was able to process the actions, the two girls were staring straightforward again, faces as somber and outraged as everyone else's.

Hmm. Curious.

For the first time since the hearing began, King Charles spoke: "SILENCE!" The effect was immediate; every sound seemed to quiet, even the rain pattering the rooftop and the winds howling outside. He nodded for his son to continue.

"That is a very serious accusation, sir," said Blaine. Kurt looked a little frightened by the chaos he had just caused, but at the sound of the prince's gentle voice, he stiffened his shoulders again. "As you probably just concluded, such an accusation affects many people."

"That doesn't stop it from being true." Kurt's voice was a mere whisper, and yet Blaine imagined he could hear every single carefully pronounced syllable, measured breath, emotion veiled behind each word.

He didn't know how to answer.

"It seems to me, that it is too soon to draw a verdict at this time," the queen cut in, radiating tranquil authority. "Emotions are too high and there is simply not enough evidence for either possible conviction. I suggest we set our best detectives onto the case and lay it to rest, for now." She moved her eyes to stare at her son; something Blaine felt was immeasurably eerie. For the most part, Blaine and his mother were complete opposites physically: Queen Anastasia was tall and willowy, while he was short and well built; she had flowing golden hair, as opposed to his shock of a dark mess; her skin shone like the luminous moonlight, whereas his was distinctly olive in tone. But their eyes – that hazel blend of brown and green and gold – were startlingly identical. "Don't you agree, Prince?"

"Uh – yes, yes I do." He knew better than to go against his mother. "This case will be put on an indefinite hiatus as the investigation about the ambush continues. Kurt Hummel will be kept here in the safety of Dalton Castle. Council dismissed."

The guards rushed Kurt away and conversation gradually started to pick up again. Queen Anastasia stood gracefully and began to fuss (or as much as she _could _fuss) over the guests' living accommodations during the rowdy storm, and moving the unfinished ball to a later date. The adrenaline rush of the trial crashing to an abrupt halt, Blaine slumped back in his seat.

"Come, son," King Charles murmured. "Into the hallway. The Council still has things to discuss."

Blaine refused to run a hand over his face in frustration. He was going to be a king, and such a life was taxing; he'd always known it would be.

Following the eleven older men (the queen was the only woman on the Council) into the hallway, he watched as chaos immediately broke out.

"I demand we sentence the varmint to the death penalty at once!" Uncle Edgar exclaimed. "He's unsafe to the public, or to any of us – there's only one way to guarantee our well-being –,"

"The death of a single teenage boy does not _guarantee _our well-being, brother," King Charles placated. "Plus, we have no right to decide upon such a fate yet. He can't be proven guilty –,"

"He can't be proven innocent, either, Charles. And what's the life of one little commoner where countries are at stake –,"

"I was once a commoner," Lord David II – Knight David's father – said in his deep, rumbling roar. "And trust me when I say that to the right person, one commoner's life could be more valuable than any country, no matter how grand."

Uncle Edgar sneered. "Yes, and I have very well made no secret of what I think about your position on this once sacred Council,_ Lord_ –,"

"What's worse, Edgar?" Duke Wesley VIII – Wes' father – asked, pure contempt evident in his hiss. "Inheriting your spot in the Council or _earning_ it?"

"ENOUGH!" Blaine's father boomed, before this could escalate into a full brawl: the men who had not yet spoken looked on edge, ready to jump to the defense of their opinion. "You are losing sight of the real matter at hand: there is a boy – who may or may not have been involved in the first major attack on Dalton's homeland in nearly a century – and needs adequate housing, until his case can be brought up again. Any suggestions, gentlemen?"

"It seems obvious to me," said Duke Wesley. "Keep him in the dungeons, feed him three square meals a day, bathe him once a week or so – he's cared for, and yet unable to pose a serious threat to anyone. Perfect, no?"

The other ten men made noises of varying degrees of assent.

Blaine had planned on sticking to the sidelines while the more experienced, capable men did the work, like he always did – but he remembered visiting the dungeons once, in his youth. They were disgusting, barely cleaned, filled with the stench of death and torture and madness – and oh so lonely. He wasn't sure why, but he _knew_, deep in his core, that he could hardly allow the boy with the ocean eyes such a monstrosity. At least, not without a fight.

"No," he said, causing eleven heads to whip around to him in tandem. Like they'd forgotten that, being the king's son, he was technically a part of this Council, too, and could do more than recite lines and look pretty. "I don't think the Dungeons are appropriate for the prisoner."

"And why is that, son?" asked King Charles, frowning. "As you just said, the Hummel boy is a prisoner. And prisoners belong in the dungeons."

"The dungeons are revolting, Father," Blaine stated matter-of-factly. "I've been down there before – there's fungi, mold, disease ridden rats – it's hardly sanitary."

"You have never questioned the dungeons' propriety before."

"And I'm not doing so now," he insisted. "That type of environment is perfectly appropriate for thirty-year-old convicted murderers, but a sixteen-year-old boy who might not even be guilty of a crime? It doesn't seem . . . humane."

Blaine noticed Lord David beginning to bristle; like his son, he always was the most benevolent of his comrades.

"Besides," Blaine tried slowly, looking into each Council member's eyes for emphasis, "just think: plenty of prisoners die from diseases each year in the dungeons. Do you really want to risk that of Sir Kurt? It is my professional opinion that he could still be of use to us yet."

Finally, he saw his words dent the Council's armor. The nobles stroked their beards in consideration, as Uncle Edgar scowled and the king arched an eyebrow.

"And what do you suppose we do with him instead?" King Charles asked.

It didn't take long for Blaine to draw on an idea: a stupid, probably reckless idea, but an idea nonetheless. "I will bear the full responsibility of taking him on as my personal servant."

"And get yourself killed?" the king barked. "Preposterous!"

"I don't believe Kurt Hummel will hurt me. He might not even be physically capable of doing so. With an army is one thing, but have you seen his size? I doubt he held a position higher than deckhand on his ship," Blaine pointed out. His eyes sharpened on his father's. "Besides, like you've stressed to me so often, I am going to be King soon. And part of being a good leader means taking risks, especially for the benefit of the whole. You taught me that."

Now, several people were nodding, impassioned. _Hook, line, and sinker,_ Blaine thought smugly.

"Well . . ." King Charles tried not to look too proud at the thought of having taught such an invaluable life lesson to his son. "I suppose you have a valid point . . ."

Blaine waited with baited breath.

"Fine then," the king agreed. He drew himself up to his full height, which didn't even reach Blaine's. "The prison boy can be your servant. But he is your full responsibility. And if I ever see him wandering the castle halls on his own, even once – the deal is off. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Blaine nodded eagerly. "Of course, sir."

King Charles nodded once more, before leading the Council members back into the ballroom, one by one, until it was only Blaine and his uncle left alone in the hallway. Blaine shifted awkwardly; he never felt entirely comfortable being alone in the presence of Edgar – an angry Edgar was a whole different story.

"To use your own words," Uncle Edgar hissed, "that was a very_ humane_ gesture of you."

Blaine acknowledged the (sort of) compliment stiffly. "Thank you."

"Oh, please – do not mistake me." Uncle Edgar smiled, but there was no trace of humor or warmth, or even familial bond – simply bitter malice. "Humanity has no place in the ruler of a nation."

-X-

Footsteps echoed off the stone floor, eerily reverberating around them. Dust and a suffocating humidity hung low in the air, much to Kurt's chagrin – his complexion was already tarnished enough, as it was.

Behind the bars of the cells they passed, Kurt caught sight of a gray-bearded elderly man, hunched in a corner and muttering to himself about "Mother" and "tomato soup"; a stark naked woman, whose body was badly scarred, performing some sort of tribal dance around a rotting animal carcass; a feral looking creature that bared its jagged fangs, but possessed unnervingly human eyes . . . Was this really where the Dalton Council saw fit to store Kurt? Call him old fashioned, but he always had a soft spot for the "innocent until proven guilty" theory.

They reached an empty cell; one of Kurt's guards stepped forward with a large, rusted key and unlocked the barred door. Another guard shoved Kurt into the dank holding pen and slammed the door shut behind him.

"Hey!" Kurt snapped, but the guards were already leaving him.

Alone. Again. Typical.

Exhaling heavily, Kurt collapsed to the floor, back against a wall. He was cold, tired, and no one could see him – so, for the first time since his arrest, he permitted blistering tears to drip down his cheeks.

Were the ships back home yet? Had his dad, or perhaps Mercedes, realized he was missing by now?

Had anyone?

Maybe Karofsky would guess what happened. Then he could tell someone . . .

Kurt tiredly shook his head. Who was he kidding? If his dimwitted brain could even possibly figure out the truth, Karofsky wouldn't tell a soul; he'd be glad to be rid of Kurt, of the reminder Kurt posed, of the constant fear that his dirty secret would get out . . .

A light rattling drifted to his ears and Kurt buried his face in his hands. Was he going mad already?

But then, peeking between his fingers, he saw it. The single diamond shaped head, and black and yellow body that was wriggling through a slim crack between the wall and the floor. A rattler on the end its tail beat back and forth rapidly. Eyes were black and ravenous.

Kurt's breath caught. He made a move to scoot away, but the snake was so close. It perched on his shoe, slithered up his knee, his thigh, wound around his torso until its head perched precariously on his shoulder. Tongue darted out, flickered against his neck, moistening the salty skin there, course with goose bumps.

Kurt closed his eyes as the snake prepared to strike.

-X-

**A/N:** Happy Valentine's Day!

Thank you SO much for the reviews, along with favorites and alerts! It means the world to me that people would be so kind and helpful:)

**NEXT CHAPTER: **Blaine plays hero, Brittany gets lost, and Kurt meets someone to give him a run for his money in bitchiness.

Squid


	3. Solace

**Disclaimer: **Officially disclaimed.

**More Than a Little Crazy**

**Ch. 3 Solace**

Kurt waited patiently for death or pain, whichever came first. When a wave of warmth washed over his face, he thought for sure he had successfully entered hell – but then the snake hissed angrily in his ear and its weight fell away from his shoulder. Kurt's eyes snapped open.

Standing above him was a tall, dark young man, waving a lit torch at the snake. It shied, slithering back into its hiding place. Barely able to believe his luck, Kurt scrambled to his feet.

For a moment, the silence was broken only by water droplets dripping from his still wet clothes. Then a rather short man stepped around the tall one, flames from the torch causing shadows to dance across his handsome face and in his piercing hazel eyes. He looked from Kurt, to the hole in the wall, to the man with the torch and said, "Well, that could've been messy."

Kurt wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. The prince had rescued him? The prince, who'd led his trial? The prince, who just earlier had more or less accused him of attacking Dalton?

Prince Blaine noticed Kurt's wide eyes and hurriedly said, "Allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Prince Blaine." He held out his hand and Kurt tentatively shook it; his grip was sure and strong, fingers slightly calloused.

"Kurt." Kurt turned his head to the man with the torch. "And you?"

"Knight David the Second," the man said, smiling cordially. "Pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine . . ." Kurt allowed his voice to trail off when he suddenly noticed he was still holding the prince's hand. He hastily yanked away, dropping his eyes to his feet in both respect and humiliation. Men were being nice to him. _Noble_ men. He wasn't about to scare them away because he couldn't keep his damned hands to himself.

Prince Blaine cleared his throat. "Um, shall we go then?"

Kurt's eyebrows shot up. "Go . . .?"

The prince smiled, semi-awkward and semi-endeared. "You didn't really think we would have you holed up in here forever, did you? Where poisonous snakes lurk in the walls?"

Yes. That was exactly what Kurt thought.

Not waiting for a response, Prince Blaine gestured for the other two men to follow him and led them out of the dungeons. The whole way, Kurt kept his gaze carefully focused on the ground, even as prisoners' jeers stung his ears.

The air lightened and his body warmed; they exited the dungeons and proceeded down numerous lengthy, immaculate hallways lined with doors, masterpiece paintings, and cool marble. Prince Blaine was short – shorter even than Kurt, who didn't quite meet average height for a sixteen-year-old boy – but his strides were purposeful and matched those of long-legged Knight David effortlessly. Kurt found himself skittering to keep up.

"Where are we going?" he blurted, when his curiosity became too much to bear. "You're not kidnapping me, are you?" He was only joking about that last part. You know. Mostly.

The noble men chuckled amiably.

"Uh, no," said Prince Blaine. "We're taking you to your new room." They trekked up a steep staircase before pulling to a stop outside a mahogany door that was identical to every other one in this castle. "Which is, coincidentally, right here. There's not really enough room in the servant's quarters, soit should have to suffice. For now, at least."

Prince Blaine wrapped his fingers around the brass handle and pulled open the door for Kurt and David to enter. Taking in the room, Kurt saw it looked rather generic: a big bed, eggshell walls and carpet, a wooden desk topped with writing supplies, a dark wood armoire, and several lit candles. He could appreciate its tidiness – but, still, the impersonality felt stifling.

"This is mine?" he asked. He plopped down on the bed; it was cushioned and ridiculously comfortable. "It's lovely . . ." He raised suspicious eyes to the prince. "What's the catch?"

Prince Blaine blinked; slowly turned to the knight. "Leave us, David."

David frowned, instantly wary. "Prince, I don't know if I feel comfortable with that . . ."

"I'm safe, David," Prince Blaine interrupted smoothly. "Now, please, go visit Wes. Make sure he's ok."

David opened his mouth to protest more.

"That's an order," cut in Prince Blaine, voice hardening.

A look of shock clouded David's face before his stance grew stony; he nodded tersely, spun on his heel, and all but stormed out. Vaguely, Kurt wondered who Wes was and what happened to him.

When the door slammed behind David's back, Prince Blaine faced Kurt again. Kurt allowed himself the briefest moment to marvel at those eyes; the sheer intensity of their honey-green depths. Wasting no time, the prince said, "You need to be my personal servant."

One instant for his bluntness to register. Another for the words to sink in. And then Kurt was on his feet and striding determinedly across the long expanse of fluffy carpet.

"Whoa!" Prince Blaine cried, following Kurt out the door and down the corridor. "Hey! Where are you going?"

Kurt saw no reason for dishonesty. "Away from here."

The prince ran to cut Kurt off before he could round the corner. "And how do you propose you get out of here? Past the guards and the townspeople? Near everyone will know your face by now."

Stubbornly, Kurt folded his arms over his chest. He scrutinized Prince Blaine; sure, the boy was small, but beneath his velvet waistcoat, his shoulders looked broad, arms muscled.

_Figures._

"What's the other option?" Kurt asked, not bothering to mask the venom lacing his voice. "Stay here to be your _slave_?"

A kind of (sort of, not really) adorable crease appeared between Prince Blaine's eyebrows. "No one said anything about slavery."

Kurt couldn't believe this guy. "Oh,_ excuse_ me. Be your personal servant, who also happens to held captive in a foreign country and probably won't be receiving adequate pay? Yes, that doesn't sound like a slave at _all_."

Prince Blaine exhaled deeply, features remaining earnest. "Listen, I know the circumstances are less than ideal . . . but this is the best offer you have. You'll get a warm bed, good food. My last personal servant passed away nearly a year ago and since then everyone's been trying to get promoted to me because I treat them with the utmost respect. You won't even notice you're a prisoner –,"

"But the fact of the matter is, I _am_ one," Kurt interrupted. So what if Blaine was royalty? Anyone wrongly thrown into jail had a given right to interrupt whoever they damn wanted to interrupt. "Nothing's going to change that. And so I refuse to be put to work by people who insist on punishing me for nothing."

He went to step around Prince Blaine – but the prince caught his elbow as he passed and Kurt automatically froze, lost in the sensation of the other boy's hand against the thin material of his sleeve, warm and gentle and reassuring. The simple touch didn't mean anything, not really; it was just a way of making Kurt stop in his tracks. But he couldn't help remembering how back home, only his dad and Mercedes ever dared to touch him so casually and with such kindness. Not even Artie or Finn, who were both pretty darn accepting compared to all the other guys, would risk something like this.

He wished he could tell them he wasn't contagious. That his personal brand of crazy couldn't be spread through casual contact, like the common cold. But no one seemed willing to listen long enough to find out.

Prince Blaine began to talk, bringing Kurt back to the present – to Dalton, to prison. "I'm not asking you to work as a punishment. I'm asking you to stay safe because I, personally, am not entirely convinced of your guilt yet."

Kurt's heart stuttered; at a snail's pace, he raised his eyes to meet the prince's. Did that mean he thought Kurt was innocent? Was getting him out of the dungeons and into glorified slavery the man's odd way of trying to help him?

All Kurt could do was say, "Oh," rather lamely.

A tiny smirk quirked the prince's mouth. "Oh, indeed." He gave the slightest of tugs on Kurt's sleeve, before beginning to leisurely stroll back the way they'd come, whistling a merry tune. Kurt looked from the now unblocked escape route to Prince Blaine's fast retreating back. And back again.

Grudgingly, he trudged to his room.

Upon hearing the door shut softly, Prince Blaine said nothing but, "Good of you to join me," as he pulled down the sheets on the bed

"I'll do that," Kurt murmured, yet he made no move to take over the job. "I'm the slave, aren't I?"

Prince Blaine cast a look over his shoulder: one part annoyed, two parts amused. "You're the _servant_. And I figure that you've been through enough – you get the night off."

"How generous of you," Kurt deadpanned, slipping into his bed when the prince finished. Encased by lush blankets and floating on a mattress of clouds, dead-tiredness hit him like a train on a track. His eyelids drooped and he even brushed away the thought of how badly his complexion was going to suffer from missing his nighttime skincare routine (if he wasn't so exhausted, he would feel appalled).

Prince Blaine diminished one of the candles, basking them in only a dim glow.

"Get a good night's sleep, Kurt," he said. "I'll show you the ropes tomorrow. I'm sure you'll fit right in."

"Prince?" Kurt blurted, words slightly slurred in his fatigue. Still, the notion nagged at him, pesky and aggravating like last season's trends in mittens. "I could kill you right now, you know. Pull out my hidden gun and shoot you to death. I'd be perfectly capable of it – more so, even."

Prince Blaine just smiled and snuffed the final candle, creating complete darkness. "I'm sure you could," he agreed. "I'll be in the room across the hall, should you feel the need to carry out that threat." Shuffling, a door swinging shut, fading footsteps . . . and then, nothing.

As tired as he felt, Kurt found he couldn't fall asleep right away, mind awhirl with the surreal tribulations of the past twenty-four hours: waking up to face another day, not unlike any other; getting trapped on the ships heading for ambush; being taken prisoner; the prince asking (or politely ordering – whichever way you chose to look at things) him to be his personal servant.

_The prince_. Despite everything, Kurt couldn't help feeling a certain . . ._ fondness_ towards Prince Blaine, buried deep in the pit of his stomach. In the biting winter of the Dalton Castle, he was summery, and affectionate, and much less standoffish than everyone else seemed to be. And he believed Kurt was innocent.

And, ok. His strong jaw line and million watt smile didn't exactly hurt his case, either.

-X-

Blaine woke to silence and shadows.

Stretching languidly, he tossed his feet over the edge of the bed and lumbered to the windows, where curtains were pulled tight across. Hoping for light, he dragged the drapes aside to overlook the beautiful back gardens; the luminescent moon was still suspended by thick storm clouds, blotting out a billion stars, much to his chagrin.

No longer even remotely tired, Blaine splashed water onto his face, straightened his hair, and changed out of his nightwear into some casual weekend clothes. Then, he tiptoed from his bedroom to the identical doorframe straight across the hall.

He hesitated, fingertips just grazing the brass knob. What if Kurt Hummel wasn't there? He could have run away, lost in the village and disguised as a townsperson by now . . . David and Wes always told Blaine he was too trusting. Such remarks weren't that big a deal from Wes, seeing as he thought any amount of trust was overrated, but David couldn't look at bunny rabbits without making ridiculous "Aww" noises. Frankly, it was offensive.

Bracing himself, Blaine gripped the handle and carefully creaked open the door a crack. He peered inside; could see nothing other than vague silhouettes in the dark. He quietly padded to the bedside, careful to avoid veiled obstacles.

This was kind of stalker-ish, Blaine realized. Very creepy. Normally, he wasn't into creepy, stalker-ish things, but for one reason or another he found himself kneeling next to the dozing prisoner, soaking in the smooth, untroubled lines of Kurt's face, blank and content and absolutely _enthralling_ for reasons Blaine couldn't quite put his finger on. But as he watched, Kurt's delicate pink lips twisted into a small frown, his eyebrows furrowed, jaw twitched with the force of clenched teeth, and then, abruptly, his gorgeous eyes were staring straight into Blaine's.

"Prince . . .?" Kurt murmured, struggling to sit up. His breathing was slightly ragged and Blaine could almost hear the other boy's rapid heartbeat, speeding in time with his own. He felt ridiculous, being caught spying on a sleeping kid – but, somehow, Kurt seemed completely oblivious to their current compromising position. "Is it morning already?"

"Um, not quite," Blaine stammered. "Sun hasn't come up yet, but I don't reckon it's too early."

"Oh." Kurt propped himself up on his elbows. "Is something wrong, then?"

"No. I was just – just checking on you."

Through the shadows, Blaine made out a sliver of a smirk fixing itself on Kurt's face. "Ah. Worried about me sneaking off? Not as gullible as you seem, huh?"

Blaine blinked, frowning. "I do_ not_ seem gullible."

"Au contraire, dear Prince. You leave your raving mad prisoner alone in an unguarded room for the night – that looks kind of gullible to me."

Quirking an eyebrow, Blaine countered, "How do you know that you're not guarded? Besides, you're not exactly raving mad."

"How do _you _know that I'm not just a really good actor? I could very well be a rampant lunatic."

Cocking his head to the side, Blaine stated, "But you aren't."

"But I could be," insisted Kurt.

"But you _aren't_."

"But I _could _be."

"But –,"

"Ok, you are totally missing the point!" Kurt burst, voice coated with subdued laughter.

They remained that way for a minute, each basking in the fading sounds of happiness and reveling in the shadows. It felt completely strange to Blaine, laughing with some stranger in the dead of night.

_Strange . . . and right. _

Kurt cleared his throat and stood. "May I ask, where can I bathe? I might as well – I won't be able to sleep for the next week and a half . . ."

"Bad dream?" assumed Blaine sympathetically, as he, too, stood and remembered the way Kurt's face crumpled before he awoke.

"No, you're just obnoxious."

Blaine faltered. What the hell? Did Kurt really think that? He had never been called _obnoxious_ in his life. Not ever by Uncle Edgar, whom Blaine presumed had called him every degrading word in the book.

"Prince." Kurt's soft fingertips interrupted Blaine, tentatively grazing his elbow. A jolt of electricity zapped through the nerve endings in his arm. "I was kidding. You don't get out much, do you?"

Trying to conceal his flushed neck, Blaine admitted, "Um, no. Not much at all. So, er – a bath, you say?'

Ignoring Kurt's snickers, Blaine showed him to the connected bathroom; it was smaller than the royal family's personal ones, but still rather extravagant nonetheless. Apparently Kurt thought so too. He gaped at everything from the marble and gold bathtub to the spotless, fluffy towels to the embroidered laundry hamper.

"This is the – oh my God . . ." he murmured, running a hand over a waiting robe, plush and beckoning. "Do I get to, like . . . _use _this stuff?"

Finding the utter awe glazing Kurt's face to be rather endearing, Blaine chuckled. "You think _this_ is nice? Just wait until you see _my _bathroom." For reasons unknown to even himself, he blushed. "Not that you'll be seeing much of my bathroom, that is . . . I mean, you'll have to when you clean it, but other than that . . ." He coughed nervously, completely taken aback by these feelings: the urge to run under a rock and hide, the tenseness in his muscles, the flabbiness of his mouth. He prided himself on being smooth, dapper, was known for it even . . . What about this kid transformed him into an awkward, babbling mess?

Kurt hadn't seemed to notice anything, still preoccupied with the bathrobe. "This material is so expensive," he murmured. "Oh my god . . ."

"Oh, well, I'll leave you to it then," Blaine announced, desperately trying to salvage some of his dignity. "I bet clean clothes sound nice to you, huh?"

At the word "clothes," Kurt snapped to attention. "Do you think you'll have some that fit?"

"I'm sure mine will suffice, until we can go into town," said Blaine. "I'll leave them outside your door."

"Thank you," Kurt said, almost against his will. "Thank you so much."

Blaine smiled softly. "It's the least I can do," he said, before leaving Kurt to his bath.

And now he was picturing Kurt in his clothes . . .

For the love of Dalton, what was _wrong _with him?

-X-

Kurt allowed himself to soak in the clear, lukewarm water for about an hour before he heaved his body out of the bathtub and wrapped up in the fuzzy bathrobe hanging on a coat rack. The rare cotton felt absolutely heavenly against his hot skin.

He walked to the bathroom door and opened it a smidge; sure enough, just as Prince Blaine promised, a set of clean clothes lay folded and waiting on the floor. He quickly dressed; the clothes fit well enough, but not just right – they were wide in the shoulders and a little short at his hips and ankles. Still, the expensive fabrics smelled nice and he could move in them.

Kurt found a generic-looking comb and a tube of sunscreen. He'd have to remember to ask the prince if there were more efficient skin and hair products hidden somewhere in this massive manor.

Finishing his personal hygiene regime (or, more accurate, what it had been reduced to), he walked back into his bedroom. And stopped cold. Because lounging on his unmade bed with a blank look in her cerulean eyes was a fair-haired maiden he'd never seen before, still in her ruffled pink nightdress.

"Um, excuse me?" he asked, when she didn't acknowledge his presence. "Was there something you needed . . .?"

She looked up at him then. Her face seemed so innocent and unthreatening, if very perplexed, that he felt no harm in edging closer. He tapped his foot impatiently as she mulled over her words.

"I'm lost," the girl finally admitted matter-of-factly.

Kurt's eyebrows shot into his still damp hairline. "What happened?"

She continued staring. "I got lost."

Realizing that the maiden wasn't exactly the sharpest tooth in the sphinx's mouth, Kurt clarified, "I mean, what were you doing _before _you got lost?"

"Oh." She nodded; apparently, his explanation cleared up a lot. "I was trying to find the kitchens."

She left it at that.

"And . . . why?" asked Kurt.

"Why else? Because I was hungry."

"At this hour? You couldn't wait until breakfast?"

The woman's expression told Kurt that she found him to be a complete idiot. Oh, sweet irony.

"Hunger cannot be denied," she stated.

"Of course not, silly me." Kurt tried not to inject his words with too much sarcasm. He had a feeling it would fly over her head, anyway. "What's your name, miss?"

"Brittany. Brittany Pierce." She frowned, contemplating something. "Brittany S. Pierce. _Princess_ Brittany S. Pierce." Satisfied, she smiled.

Kurt blinked._ This_ was a princess? He swore politicians were getting dumber and dumber . . .

"I'm Kurt Hummel," he said, for lack of a better response.

"Do you live here?" Princess Brittany S. Pierce asked, taking in the decorations mildly.

"Not really. I'm just boarding until I can get back home."

"Me, too, until the storm clears up. I don't like my room, though. Or yours. It's too white. And clean. It reminds of that week I spent in the insane asylum . . ."

She trailed off and Kurt decided he needed to get her as far away from him as he could and fast.

"How about I help you find you way back to where you came from?" he suggested. Brittany eagerly nodded and he ushered her out the door. As soon as they reached the hallway, Brittany wrapped her hand around his; Kurt started. What was it with all the_ touching_ in Dalton? At first, with Prince Blaine, it was kind of nice, but now it was just freaky . . .

"Do you remember how where you came from looked? Before you got lost?" Kurt asked.

"Oh, yeah. I was in a hallway with cream walls that had paintings on them."

"Thank you, Princess," Kurt said. "That really clears things up."

The hallway they were walking down fit this description perfectly, as did the next, and the next.

"You know," said Brittany, "you have really soft hands. Like, baby soft."

Kurt paused. Was that a compliment?

"Wait . . ." she continued, peering at him. "_Are_ you a baby?"

By this point in the conversation, Kurt was seriously confused. "No?"

Brittany visibly relaxed. "Ok, good. 'Cause that would be weird."

_Not as weird as you_, Kurt thought privately.

As they rounded another corner, Kurt heard the sound of rushed footsteps and frantic yells. Racing towards them was a pair of girls: the darker one dressed in mismatched slippers, mussed hair, and a wild expression; the one trailing behind her wearing a breezy frock and natural makeup that accented her features perfectly.

"Brittany!" they both chimed, upon seeing Kurt's companion. The dark, wild girl pushed Kurt out of the way as she threw herself into Brittany's arms.

"What did I tell you about wandering off, huh?" she grumbled, burrowing her head in the crook of Brittany's neck. If he hadn't been so rudely shoved, Kurt might have found it sweet. "Remember what happened last time?"

"Sorry, San," Brittany murmured, stroking her friend's raven hair.

Kurt looked to the last of the girls and was startled to see her olive-toned eyes glaring at him fiercely. Almost of their own accord, his feet shuffled backward.

"What were you doing with her?" she asked, voice too calm for her eyes.

"Helping her find her way back." He sneered. "Which , obviously, is more than _you _could do."

The girl ignored him. "Brittany? Did he hurt you in any way?"

Brittany immediately shook her head. "Kurt's really nice. And he has soft hands. And he's not a baby."

The girl furrowed her brow.

"Hey!" The dark girl – "San" as Brittany called her – disentangled herself from Brittany so she could glare at Kurt, too. _They act as if glaring is the new is black, _he reflected sadly. "You're that punk from the hearing! The one who said McKinley attacked Dalton . . ."

"That was mean, Kurt," said Brittany. "And _almost_ as bad as being a baby."

Kurt stiffened his shoulders, readying himself to defend his and his kingdom's innocence when a new voice joined the party.

"Kurt? I was wondering where you'd gone off to . . ." Prince Blaine rounded the corner and frowned, taking in the scene. "What's going on here?"

The change in the girls was instantaneous. San tugged her nightgown to show more cleavage, Brittany hiked up her skirt, and the unnamed girl smirked seductively.

And people wondered why Kurt couldn't be bothered with women.

"Prince Blaine!" the third girl exclaimed. "Thank goodness you're here! The prisoner was just _threatening_ Brittany."

"What?" Kurt gasped. He turned his eyes to a stricken Prince Blaine. "That's a lie! I swear, I was just helping her –,"

"Oh, _likely_ story," she cut off. "See, Prince? He's a conniving little liar, just like when he said McKinley attacked Dalton! He can't be trusted –,"

"Please, Princess Quinn," Prince Blaine interrupted. He took a step toward the other two girls; San was whispering in Brittany's ear furiously. They immediately jumped apart when they noticed the attention focused on them. "Princess Brittany? Would care to tell me what exactly transpired between you and Sir Hummel?"

Brittany's doe eyes moved from her fellow princesses to the prince to Kurt. The latter gazed at her imploringly, willing her to tell the truth. At last, she sighed sadly.

"I'm sorry, Santana," she said. "But I can't say that. Kurt's too nice. He helped me find my way back to you."

Prince Blaine's gaze hardened, and Kurt relaxed. "So that was a lie?" the former asked, in a way that was both polite and eerily menacing.

Princess Quinn remained silent.

"I suggest you do not try something like that again, unless you should find yourself boarding with peasants until you can return to McKinley," Prince Blaine warned. He smiled warmly at Kurt. "Come on. We can start your training now."

Kurt nodded. "Be right there." The prince offered one last reassuring grin before he went back the way he came.

As soon as he felt confident the prince was out of earshot, Kurt turned to Quinn, stating matter-of-factly, "You're a bitch." Sure, she was royalty and could probably get him thrown out of the precarious solace he had established in Dalton with one flutter of her ridiculously long eyelashes – but, really, what more did he have to lose?

She shrugged daintily. Yet he detected the wicked glint in her eye, empowered set of her shoulders. "Maybe. But I'm guessing not any more so than you."

The sentence barely left her mouth, before Kurt was turning on his heel and storming after Prince Blaine. Maybe because Princess Quinn was_ so_ annoying, with her perky breasts and invisible pores. Or maybe because a part of him knew that what she said was ture.

-X-

Quinn watched the prisoner's retreating back through slatted eyes. Something was off about him. Very, very off.

When he disappeared from view, she sighed and sidled up to Santana and Brittany, whose pinkies were linked like always. She couldn't bring herself to be too upset that Brittany didn't play along with her little, impromptu plan – that was just_ Brittany_. What was more perturbing was that her two "sisters" had allowed themselves to be seen by the _prince _in their nightclothes. Sometimes, it felt like they didn't even _want_ to marry a fine noble man and escape Queen Sylvester, once and for all.

Granted, Quinn admired the queen. A _lot_. Sue Sylvester always pushed her to be her absolute best, no excuses. And Quinn suspected that, in her own little way, Sue secretly cared for her surrogate daughters. But that didn't mean Quinn wanted to be _stuck with her_ for the rest of her life.

No, that would be torture. She needed a husband – fast. She needed freedom. She needed to rule over others, as she was always meant to.

She needed Prince Blaine.

"Did the prisoner seem a bit odd to either of you?" she voiced her suspicions.

"Other than being completely _flaming_?" Santana sniggered. "Nah, he seemed fine."

Brittany stared, mouth agape. "Kurt was on fire?"

"No, Britt. He likes boys," explained Santana, and Brittany nodded understandingly.

Though Quinn still couldn't shake her foreboding feelings about him; the flicker in his eyes, the smirk on his lips, his lilting voice . . . She thought back to Prince Blaine. More specifically, the way he_ looked_ at Prince Blaine.

"Do you think he likes the Prince?" she asked.

Santana rolled her eyes. "And they call you the smart one. Of_ course_ he likes the prince._ Everyone_ likes the prince. The prince is, like, _the _hottest, _richest_ man in Dalton, Glee, and McKinley combined. I mean, if I was a guy, one look at him would turn me faster than rabbits could do the deed and start popping 'em out."

Quinn blinked. "You've been spending too much time with Sue," she pointed out. But her mind was already traveling back in time to Prince Blaine's smile just a minute ago, more genuine than when he'd been presented with dozens of gorgeous, eligible noble women. When he'd been presented with _Quinn_.

Oh yes, something had to be done. And_ soon_.

-X-

Later that night found Quinn sitting by the candle's dying flame, stationary ready, favorite quill poised in the tips of her fingers like a dagger.

_Dear Queen Sylvester,_

_I need your help._

-X-

**A/N: **For the record, this is Awesome-Bitchy-Pre- Glee club Quinn, rather than Awesomer-Sweet-Still a bit bitchy-Post-Glee Club Quinn.

So, a new chapter should be out soon, to try and help you all through the long, dark abyss that a Glee-less Tuesday is sure to be. If I don't fill the night with writing, it will be filled with chocolate. And my hips just can't take that.

Thank you SOSOSOSOSO much, to everyone who reads this, and especially those who review! It means the world:)

**Next Chapter**: Kurt thinks that Sam Evans, the blonde elf with a tortured past, is H-O-T. Blaine thinks that Kurt shouldn't think Sam Evans is H-O-T.


	4. The Price to Pay

**Ch.4 The Price to Pay**

Between pointing out features that distinguished one hallway from another, and desperately pretending that Princess Quinn's deceit didn't bother him in the slightest (even though it kind of did . . . what semi-decent human being would just _do_ something like that?), Blaine couldn't help stealing glances at the young Kurt Hummel. A lock of hair kept falling into his eyes – most times, he swept it back into his coif irritably, but now it danced unnoticed over his forehead. Blaine's fingers twitched, itching to just do the boy a favor and brush the strand away. But that would be inappropriate. And why was it such a big deal, anyway?

_Focus, Blaine_, he told himself. _Focus._

"And here are the servant's quarters. They're rather crowded right now, but when a bed becomes available, and your current circumstances stabilize, you'll be moving in," he announced, pushing away all thoughts of Kurt's distracting hair. The room they entered was cozy and warm. A clear glass window expanded across an entire wall; through it, Blaine could see the sun's hazy glow over the hills, fighting to crack the stony clouds. Servants already milled about, preparing for the day.

"Good morning, Your Majesty!" many voices chorused. Little children waved, and several people bowed. Every smile looked genuine, every greeting sincere.

"Quite popular, aren't you?" asked Kurt, raising his eyebrows.

Blaine shrugged modestly, but his heart swelled at the semi-praise.

He introduced Kurt to some of the servants, who welcomed him graciously. Either they didn't realize a prisoner was among their midst, or they pretended not to notice; probably the latter. Many of the servants had once been or were closely related to criminals. They understood when it was best to just keep quiet.

For a fugitive, Kurt played the perfect gentleman, shaking hands and exchanging quips. Blaine allowed him a minute to mingle, before respectfully excusing Kurt from the queen's lady-in-waiting (she could talk an ear off) and leading him over to a back corner, where a young man sat in a love seat, weaving some sort of intricately patterned cloth from branches and grasses. His bleached-blonde hair (totally fake, by the way; not that Blaine actually took it upon himself to _notice_ whether hair colors were real or not . . .) swept across his face, just short enough to reveal distinctly pointed ears. Blaine cleared his throat.

Sam Evans raised his head, shamrock-hued eyes widening at sight of the prince. "Your Majesty!" he squealed; dropped his cloth and clambered into a bow.

Blaine forced himself not to chuckle. "Sir Sam," he greeted stoically. "Might I ask, is that a blanket you're working on?"

"Oh, no!" Sam snatched up the cloth and twisted it into a cone shape. He plopped it on his head, grinning, self-satisfied. "It's a hat, see?"

Blaine coughed into his hand, glancing at Kurt. He expected the servant to arch a sculpted brow at the boy's blatant dorkiness, or sniff in disdain, but he did neither. Instead, he simply . . . stared. Face contours shadowed. Eyes almost . . .

_Predatory?_

Huh. How odd.

Now, contrary to popular belief, Blaine was not a _total_ oblivious idiot. He knew that there were men in the world who preferred to court other men, and he knew there were people in the world who found this lifestyle revolting. Personally, he didn't see the big deal: his entire life, Blaine knew his marriage would be one of convenience, of politics. If he had any opportunity to find love, even if it be with another male? He would (and had, once, though that is a tale for another day) grasp it in an instant.

Even so, the way Kurt looked at Sam was disconcerting. It made Blaine's stomach knot, his teeth grind, bile burn his throat.

It was official. This kid was making him insane.

"Um, Sam is my little brother's personal servant," Blaine _made_ his lips form the reluctant words, relieved when sound followed, "and so he can show you what the job requires, before Winston – my little brother, he's twelve – wakes up. That is, if you wouldn't mind, Sam?"

Sam raised his eyebrows, goofy grin playing around lips that rivaled Kurt's in redness. "You finally found someone good enough for you, then?"

Blaine blinked.

"To, uh, take over Crowley's spot as your personal?" Sam clarified awkwardly.

"Oh," said Blaine. He, too, forced a strained smile. "Yes, I suppose I did. So, would you take on Kurt for me, Sam?"

"Course I would." Sam thumped Blaine good-naturedly on the shoulder, barely noticing when his prince nearly toppled over. "I kind of owe you, man, after you helped me out with that whole thing in McKinley."

Finally, Kurt snapped out of his daze, eyes flickering between the two men. "What whole thing with McKinley?" he questioned curiously.

"Oh, there was just this one time when –,"

Blaine cut off the beginnings of Sam's reply: "Nothing."Kurt's eyebrow quirked – he knew there was more to the story, and Blaine knew he knew. But it didn't matter. "Will you guys be ok starting training now? The sooner Kurt is fully able, the better."

Sam shrugged in that leisurely, laidback way of his. "Sure, I guess. We're all up. It should only take an hour or so, just to warn you, depending on how good this dude is." He cast Kurt a lopsided grin, to which Kurt rather visibly swooned.

Blaine abruptly felt sick.

"That's fine, whatever," he said, averting his eyes. "Just let me know when you guys are done – I won't wander too far."

He was almost to the exit when he chanced a glance over his shoulder: Kurt already had Sam engrossed in conversation, features earnest and giggles fluttering through the room like sickeningly adorable butterflies.

Forcing down a wave of nausea, Blaine made his way to the hospital wing, where hopefully someone could diagnose his illness.

-X-

Kurt may not have had a lot of experience in this particular area, but one look at Sam Evans gave him all he needed to know: Sam was like _him_. He _had_ to be. No "normal" man (society's words; not Kurt's) would bleach his hair to that precise shade.

"You know," Kurt began, sidling up to Sam (Sammy, Sam-Sam, Sam-o? He could see the cutesy, couple pet names now . . .), "there are some really good brand name conditioners I could tell you about, ones particularly gentle to colored hair. In case you were ever curious."

Sam seemed bemused, as if he had no idea what Kurt was talking about. _Likely story, buddy. _"Um, I don't color my hair," said Sam. "Unless by coloring it, you mean sometimes combing it in the mornings."

Ah. Denial. How tragic.

"Mmm-hmm." Realizing Sam clearly wasn't ready to come out about his hair color (among other things), Kurt changed the subject to something that was hopefully less_ touchy_. "What's with the ears?" he asked, referring to Sam's pointed lobes, sharp like sphinx teeth.

"Oh, that's just an elf thing," Sam explained nonchalantly.

Kurt's plucked brow rocketed to his hairline, eyes agleam with interest. An elf? So, Mr. Evans was exotic . . .

_Me like-y._

"You're pretty tall for an elf. I would have guessed the prince, before you."

Sam grinned, a grin just crooked enough to send Kurt's heart aflutter. "Yeah, we get that a lot. So, you up for your totally awesome Personal-Servant-to-a-Prince training session, Sam Evans style?"

_Oh_, Kurt thought as he clandestinely appreciated the muscles in Sam's arms and shoulders and thighs, _boy am I ready._

-X-

Blaine collapsed on a cot in the infirmary, springy mattress creaking beneath his weight. The nurse squeaked at the sight of royalty and scrambled over to him.

"Prince!" she gasped, immediately placing the back of her hand to his hot forehead. "How may I help you?"

"I feel rather unwell, Madame Pickle," he admitted, straight-faced. After a decade of her services, he no longer felt the overwhelming urge to collapse into a puddle of hysterics at her last name (oh, like you wouldn't be the same).

"Mmm?" she murmured, checking his vital signs, even though he was fairly certain he was 100 percent alive. "How don't you feel well, Prince? Nausea, headache, stomach pains?"

"Um, yes, yes, and yes?" he tried with a throaty chuckle. _Plus, I'm having completely inappropriate thoughts about a boy I just threw in jail._

He figured he should leave that last part out.

"You are definitely warm to the touch," Madame Pickle said, "but there doesn't seem to be too much wrong with you physically. Here, let's see if you –," She reached over to a nearby tray stashed high with medical appliances and plucked up a thermometer, shoved it between Blaine's lips. They waited a minute or so before she pried the device from his mouth again, glancing at the bold number on its face. She frowned. "Your body temperature is perfectly normal. Do you think these symptoms could possibly be attributed to high levels of stress?"

Blaine was about to respond that yes, he had been rather stressed lately, when a new voice cut in, sharp and biting as ice: "Are you sure you weren't _poisoned_?"

Blaine sat up so quickly that rainbow stars danced before his irises. A few cots to his left, bandaged and sullen, sat a dark-haired young man, one Blaine had feared he might never see upright and able-bodied again.

"Wesley!" Blaine cried, grinning from ear to ear. "How are you –?" His smile dipped. "Wait . . . what do you mean, am I sure I wasn't poisoned?"

Wes shrugged, as seemingly pompous as ever, and it really rubbed Blaine's nerves the wrong way. When they were alone, Wes could be shockingly funny, unnervingly smart, and rather relatable (on good days – let us not get ahead of ourselves). When they were alone, Wes was one of Blaine's best, most trusted companions. But with even the slightest of audiences? The acclaimed knight transformed into a different man, one who was bitter, and harsh, and (pardon his language) a right pain in the _ass_.

Plus, Blaine supposed, a hole in your shoulder didn't do a lot to improve your mood.

"David told me about your new pet project," Wes continued. "Taking the little prisoner under your wing? It's kind of sweet, in a twisted, masochistic sort of way."

Blaine rolled his eyes. "Lay off, Wes. I know this may come as a shock to you, but I offered my assistances to Kurt because I'm a semi-decent human being. With a heart. With a _soul_."

"'Kurt?' Well, aren't you two just _chummy_."

"I said, back off, Wes!" Blaine snapped, annoyed as that all too familiar condescending tone crawled like some multi-legged _thing_ beneath his skin.

"Why should I?" challenged Wes. He jerked as if to stand up; winced and massaged his shoulder. "I know you have some sort of White Knight complex, Blaine, but surely even _you_ could accept that this kid can't be trusted."

Anger broiled in the pit of Blaine's stomach, raw and ferocious. "And_ what_," he seethed, "exactly is _that _supposed to mean?"

Wes remained cool, unaffected by his friend's flashing eyes. "It means that you only see what you want to see! Don't look at me like that, you know it's true! I mean, look at that whole Jeremiah situation –,"

"Shut up," Blaine hissed, face flaming. He couldn't believe Wes would bring _that_ up. And when he had almost forgotten . . . "You're being a – a jerk, Wes."

"You're being naïve, Blaine."

"You know what? I don't have to listen to this." He stood, tilting his head respectfully at Madame Pickle, who sat quaking in her seat as her eyes darted between the two nobles. "Thank you for all your help, Ma'am."

He strode calmly to the door, desperately clinging to the few shards of dignity Wes had left intact.

"I hope you know what you're getting yourself into," Wes called, voice echoing down the hall.

Blaine forced his fingers through the gel caked into his hair, a single question loud in his mind.

_Do I?_

-X-

Kurt perched on the edge of Sam's bed, glancing around the room. There were three other beds, each situated in a corner, though Sam's was by far the most personally decorated; Styrofoam planets hung from the ceiling and a bulletin board fixed was on the wall, pinned with drawings, both crude and intricate, of far off universes, photographs of other elves that Kurt assumed to be Sam's friends and family, and cutouts of goofy sayings like "REACH FOR THE STARS" and "To Infinity and Beyond!" It was pretty dorky. And kind of hot. If, you know, you were into that sort of thing.

Sam was rifling through the large oak trunk, carved with symbols in Gaelic and Elfish, at the base of his bed. Kurt admired the strip of suntanned skin peeking out between his shirt and waistband as he bent over.

"Here we go," Sam said, surfacing with a bundle of papers that he promptly deposited on Kurt's lap. He picked up a few, reading the headings before discarding them again. "The Milky Way . . . Titan Forest . . . Arctic Ocean . . . Oh, here it is!" He triumphantly pushed a folded up piece of yellowed parchment into Kurt's hands. Receiving the unsaid signal, Kurt immediately unfolded the parchment to its true size, smoothing the creases and flattening wrinkles.

Below the heading of _DALTON CASTLE_, penned in a hurried scrawl, was a picture of sorts: faded, yet sharp lines sketching a series of thick boxes, skinny rectangles, and other shapes connected in an elaborate web. It wasn't until he caught sight of a small label reading, _PRINCE BLAINE'S ROOM, _that he fully understood what exactly he was holding so preciously in his fingers.

"Did you . . . make this?" he asked, raising his eyes to Sam. A little awed, to tell the truth. But only a little. Because it took more than some fancy artwork to impress Kurt Hummel.

Sam shrugged modestly. "I had a lot of free time when I first got here."

"And it's accurate?"

"There's always room for improvement, I guess, but . . . yeah, pretty much."

Kurt didn't bother to hide his approval. "Hmm. Pretty _and _smart."

Chuckling, Sam shook his head. "Nah. I mean, maps and science and stuff are one thing . . . but, believe it or not, I'm not really that smart when it comes to people." He cleared his throat. "So, uh, anyway, probably the hardest part of servitude is navigating this place. Everything kind of looks the same. Just hang on to that good ole thing and you'll get the hang of it eventually."

He motioned for Kurt to follow him and he led them from the servant quarters.

"Ok, for your first task, I want you to get us to the kitchens, using the map," Sam said. Kurt took a moment to locate_ KICTHENS_ on Sam's map before hesitantly taking off down a wayside corridor.

About five minutes into Kurt's tentative navigation, Sam remarked, "So, like, being a PS – that's personal servant, in case you didn't know –,"

"I gathered."

"Well, being a PS can be both the hardest and easiest of jobs," he continued. "For one thing, you don't have to be specialized in anything, so there's no really hard work. For another, you're kind of always on the job. If your master wants you to do something, then you've got to do it. Lucky for you, though, Blaine's really reasonable and he doesn't ever try to take advantage of his status."

Kurt shot the blonde a side eyed look, as he turned down a new corridor. "That's nice of him."

"Yeah, Blaine's really cool like that," Sam agreed.

Kurt wondered if he could ask about whatever went down with Blaine and McKinley. Was it too soon?

He remained silent and sooner, or perhaps later, they were standing outside a battered door and Sam was beaming as he pulled it open.

"Awesome, dude!" he said. "Seriously, I couldn't have done it better myself."

Kurt smirked slightly at the praise. "So, what would one be doing in here?" he asked, taking in the cramped room, full of cabinets and stoves and the smells of delicious food. People were bustling in and out, preparing dishes and menus. Shoulders and elbows dug into his sides, jostling him. "It sure is crowded."

"Yeah, it's only this bad because of all the guests we have. You know, because people don't feel that safe traveling with strong storm warnings," Sam explained. "I hate it. It throws everything off. And then there's all these royals waltzing around, thinking they own the damn place, that they own_ you_ . . ." He shook his head; apparently, no words could describe his sheer disgust.

Kurt gave him a moment to his thoughts. At last, his eyes cleared and he smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry about that," he said. "It just . . . it bugs me. But anyway! Um, you won't have to be doing any cooking, but you will have to go place the order, should Blaine want a snack or something. Oh, and every morning, bring him his coffee – a medium drip. And . . . I think that's all you'll need the kitchens for."

Kurt made a noise of acknowledgment. "So what else will I be doing for Prince Blaine, as his PS?"

"You know, the usual." Sam snatched a fresh carrot off a cart and began to gnaw on it. For the first time, Kurt noticed he had a really big mouth. Would that make him a better kisser, or a worse one . . .? "You'll draw his bath, turn down the covers on his bed each night, help him dress on occasion. If he wants something immediately, it's your job to see to it."

That wouldn't be hard – Kurt already did those things for his dad most of the time. But, still, the _principle_ of the thing . . .

"So basically," Kurt clarified, with no absence of sarcasm, "if it requires some sort of effort on the prince's part, then I should take care of it."

Sam nodded, before seeming to understand that Kurt just insulted his master, or whatever the hell Blaine was. "Hold on, that's not fair," he admonished gently. "Prince Blaine is a really good dude. He's just . . . royalty. He can't help what he was born."

Before he could catch himself, Kurt's mouth open. He hadn't thought of it that way – and he was not certain he wanted to. It hit a little too close to home.

_He can't help what he was born. _

"How did the prince help you with whatever went on in McKinley?" Kurt blurted.

Sam blinked.

"Sorry," Kurt rushed to add, "that's not my place, I get it –,"

"Nah, it's cool," assured Sam. "The story's pretty awesome. I don't even know why Blaine didn't want me to tell the it earlier – probably 'cause we're tight on time or something." He glanced around, suddenly mischievous. "Do you want to see something really cool?"

Kurt nodded eagerly and Sam ushered him from the kitchens, around a corner, into an empty hallway (there seemed to be a lot of those).

He pulled a small, plum-colored bag from his pocket; reached two fingers inside and pinched a sliver – just a sliver – of iridescent glitter. Kurt felt himself automatically straighten at the sight of it, shimmering like mottled crystals – making up in brilliance what it lacked in volume.

"This is Elfin Shimmer Dust," said Sam. "Ever heard of it?"

Kurt's head bobbed up and down, eyes wide as saucers. "Of course! I almost bought a dress once, with some Dust sewn into the seams."

At Sam's furrowed brow, Kurt hastily defended, "I was going to make it into a suit!"

"Right . . . Well, it can do more than make clothes look pretty. Especially in the hands of an elf." To illustrate his point, he flung the Dust into the air, where it hung for a brief second, filtering beams of light and mingling with regular dust motes.

And then . . . it _exploded_.

Sparkly powder erupted in all directions, coating the walls, the floor, clinging to unseen objects in the dead of space. The only sounds were the wind whistling through their ears, the strands of hair whipping their cheeks. For so little, there was so . . . _much_.

It didn't last forever though; immediately, the sparkle began to fade, but in its place, colors painted themselves over the surfaces of the castle, as if by an invisible hand: dark browns and greens washing over the floor and racing upward; purple, red, yellow popping from the Shimmer Dust; maroon weaving into the picture intricately.

As suddenly as it began, it ended and they were left standing in a forest.

Tall trees stretched into the sky. Sun drops sprinkled the mud. Bushes laced with multicolored berries and flower buds sat low, as snakes, lizards, and squirrels scampered in and out of them. But . . . the air was room temperature and near unbearably still. Was this all an illusion?

"Where are we?" Kurt whispered, feeling the need to preserve the fragile quiet for as long as possible.

"Titan Forest," Sam said. "It's in McKinley and it is . . . well, it used to be . . . my home. Look, there I am." He pointed to a nearby cluster of bushes, where a young boy of about twelve or thirteen years huddled, drawing nonsensical pictures in the dirt with a stick.

Kurt only really noticed one thing about him, though: the dirty blonde, borderline brown, haystack atop his head.

"Your hair . . ." he started.

Sam coughed. "It's, uh, lightened with age."

Before Kurt could press the matter, a snap reverberated through the open. All three boys jumped, even though two of them were in about as much danger as a fat mermaid in mating season (that is to say, not a lot). The young Sam Evans quickly regained his senses and dove farther into the bushes.

"Shut up, you idiot! Someone will hear us!"

"Sorry! Stupid twig!"

Two hulking figures materialized in a hole in the tree cover. They were clad in black cloaks, hoods obscuring their faces from view, and they each carried a flaming torch. At the sight of the strangers and the fire, animals scampered up trees and burrowed under roots for solace.

"Ya think this place'll do?" the first figure asked, voice gruff.

The second man nodded. "Mmm-hmm. It should do just fine." He bent down, looked about to place his torch on the highly flammable forest floor, crusted with dead leaves and twigs, when a squeak suddenly pierced the air and Little Sam tumbled from his hiding place.

The men froze.

"Well, if it ain't a little tree hugger himself . . ."the first man mused. "Spying on us, were you, tree hugger? We don't take too kindly to spies . . ." He grabbed Little Sam by the scruff of his muddy shirt and hoisted him up. "What d'ya say we do with him? Just leave 'im to burn with the rest?"

"Nah," said the other, malevolent tone sending chills down Kurt's spine. "I've got a better idea."

He dropped the torch.

The scene faded, colors once again swirling around them in a dizzying affect. Distorted voices drifted to Kurt's ears, haunting, surreal, as if in a dream.

"_We saw the smoke and went for help – found this little twerp with two torches!"_

"_No! I swear I didn't do it! They're – they're lying . . ."_

"_Mom? Dad? Where are my parents? My – my brother! WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THEM?"_

"_. . . A terrible fire in the Titan Forest yesterday, wiped out the entire population of elves . . . Only one boy, thirteen-year-old Samuel Evans, was found . . . Did he know the fire would end up destroying his home, his family and friends, and everything he loved? Or could he even love at all?"_

Finally, the colors settled again, painting the picture of a hallway, not unlike the one in which they previously stood. Except this hallway seemed dark, shadowy, a stark contrast to Dalton's pristine cream. The works of art on the walls were not of beaches, and fields, and former rulers – but of death, destruction, volcanic eruptions, wildfires, tidal waves. They were beautiful, yes, in their own right. But they were terrible, too.

"This is McKinley Castle," said Sam, "as it's been for the past three decades, ever since Queen Sylvester took over."

A rickety door at the far end of the hallway swung open and a boy hobbled out: Sam. A sheen of sweat coated his scrunched forehead, and he wore a red and white cloak that looked to be some sort of uniform. He was mopping tiredly.

"A year's passed since the fire," explained Big Sam. "As punishment, I was sentenced to lifelong servitude for Queen Sylvester."

Kurt watched as, in exhaustion, Little Sam collapsed against the wall, allowing his eyes to droop closed. "Those men framed you." It wasn't a question.

"Yep."

"Did you get any sort of trial?"

Sam shook his head, sighing. "You've got to understand that at McKinley, magical creatures have, like, little to no rights. They could do anything they wanted to me."

"That's terrible," Kurt said matter-of-factly, and Sam shrugged, shushing him as the door knob turned again.

Prince Blaine stumbled into the hallway, expensive looking clothes mussed and curls sticking in every direction. He was even shorter than Kurt knew him to be and his face was a couple years younger, body leaner, shoulders not set in as much confidence – but those honey eyes still shone with the same vigor, the same intensity.

At the sight of their company, both Blaine and Little Sam froze. Sam quickly recovered, though, scrambling to his feet and into a sloppy bow.

"Prince," he started, "um, is there anything I could do for you . . .?"

"Those princesses," Blaine cut him off, leaning against the wall despairingly, "are _insane_."

Little Sam still seemed nervous, but he grinned all the same. "Yeah, you're just lucky that you and the King came up here for business while Princess Santana is away for the week. I had barely started working here when she first tried to jump me."

Blaine cocked his eyebrows, amused smirk playing on his lips, and gaze sweeping the young boy from head to toe. "How old are you?" he asked abruptly.

Sam drew himself up to his full height, which was already much taller than the prince's. "Fourteen, sir."

"You look exhausted."

"I'm ok. A bit tired, but – but I'll get through it. I always do."

"Does your family work here also?" Blaine continued, voice remarkably gentle, never pushy.

Little Sam wouldn't meet his eyes. "No . . ." he murmured. "My family's, uh – dead. There was an, uh, a little wildfire about a year ago. I was the only one in my village left living."

"Hmm." Blaine cocked his head, taking up an "I'm all ears" stance. "Something makes me think that there was more to that wildfire than you're letting on."

Sam flicked the prince a glance, debating whether or not to trust him, Kurt assumed. "They think I started it," he blurted.

"Did you?"

"No! It was these two really big dudes, and they found me in the forest. Turned me in to the Queen, saying I killed all those people . . . my family, my_ friends_." His posture grew defensive, ready to ward off any and all accusations, green eyes flashing. "You don't believe me, do you? No one believes elves."

Bemused lines creased Blaine's forehead. "I don't know what it's like here – like, honestly, I have no clue, Queen Sylvester has my family and I under strict 'Ask Us No Questions, and We Tell You No Lies' policies – but where I come from, everyone gets treated the same, no matter what they are."

Sam frowned, as if he couldn't possibly comprehend such an ideal. It panged Kurt's heart – mainly because he understood, with every fiber of his being. "Wait . . . does that mean you believe me?"

"I don't_ not_ believe you because you're an elf," Blaine clarified.

Sam looked as if he'd just been told the freaking meaning of life.

In fact, he was so overwhelmed that he began to sway. And nearly toppled over.

So maybe there was more to that dazed look in his eyes than utter happiness.

Blaine lunged forward, grabbing Sam's upper arm, and helped the kid to the floor again.

"You look completely dehydrated!" said Blaine. "When was the last time you had some water?"

". . . I dunno. Queen Sylvester says hydration is for wimps who can't rely on their own strength. Or something. You know, I actually _do_ feel a bit weird, though . . ."

And then the scene faded once more.

Kurt spun around to face the Sam of the Present. "What happened? Why'd everything go dark again?"

"Shh, listen," he instructed.

"_He completely passed out!" _shouted a disembodied voice, churning in time with the rainbow whirlwind. _"He said she doesn't let them drink water – he's a year younger than me, he still has a life ahead of him! At this rate, she's going to kill him –,"_

"_Nephew, do you suggest we ruin this negotiation with McKinley because – what? You've got a little _boy crush _on some Elfin, teen delinquent -?"_

"_Edgar, please refrain from talking to my son – your _prince_ – in such a manner. Blaine's kindness is something to take pride in."_

"_There is a point at which kindness becomes naivety, Brother –,"_

"_But, Blaine, you must admit that your uncle has a point. In exchange for our services, Queen Sylvester plans on paying us very heartily –,"_

"_So, we ask for half the sum of gold and the boy! Sam could be incredibly useful to us, Father. Winston has requested a PS closer to his age, one he can relate to – but you know young labor in good health can be _so_ expensive these days. Plus . . . just think . . . you've been having trouble winning over the majority of the magical populace in Dalton. They know they've got equal rights, but they're still scared that it's a bluff. What better way to convince them than by rescuing a young, alleged arsonist, who so happens to be an _elf_, from the jaws of McKinley?"_

"_Well, I suppose you have a point . . ."_

Sam seemed to think there was nothing more to see, or hear. He snapped his fingers – and, just like that, the fog cleared and two servant boys were left standing alone in an abandoned hallway.

"And, so, here I am," Sam said, gesturing vaguely to himself, to the ceiling, to all of Dalton. "I don't know what they did, but they got Queen Sylvester to hand me over. I've been serving Prince Winston ever since."

"Prince Blaine saved you?" Kurt asked. _Just like he saved me._

"Yeah. See, he's really not a bad dude. Give him a chance."

Kurt chewed on his lips, eyes clouding as he thought of the prince – his sure walk, bright smile; pretentious, yet still cordial . . .

_And the reason I'm now a slave._

Sam must have picked up on some of his doubt, for he laid a would-be-comforting hand on his shoulder.

_Oh my holy hippogriffs, people_, Kurt couldn't help thinking. _Stop touching me!_

"Listen, Kurt," Sam said slowly, earnestly, "I get that it's totally not cool to be put to work. But I'm safe here. And so are you."

Kurt said nothing and Sam seemed to take this as his cue to leave.

"Winston's probably gonna be waking up soon," he said, backing up. "I should get going. Do you think you've got the hang of it?"

"Be at Blaine's beck and call twenty-four/seven. Should be a dream."

"Cool, I'm glad." Apparently, not only did Daltonians have an unnatural obsession with touching others, they also missed rather blatant sarcasm. Fantastic. Kurt could tell he was going to love it here (for all the Daltonians out there, he was being sarcastic). "I'll see you around, man!" And with that, Sam jogged off.

Kurt watched him go. Wondering if, when it came to safety, freedom was always the price to pay.

-X-

**A/N:** Well, hello there, my fabulous readers! I would just like to thank every person who read and reviewed last chapter – you're so kind. Seriously, stop being so nice. It's making me look bad.

Just kidding. Really. Be as nice as you'd like. I'm all for it.

ANYWAY. I must ask, fellow Gleeks: opinion on "Sexy?" I rather enjoyed it, and the absolute KLAINENESS of it all – even though Kurt totally doesn't need help being sexy. I actually wasn't aware that he hadn't been being sexy for the past season and a half. EMBARRASSING. ;D

So! Not much Klaine this chapter, I know: just more stinking character development. I promise the story will (hopefully) pick up soon!

Thanks for reading! 

Squid


	5. Pavarotti

**More than a Little Crazy**

**RECAP:** After being imprisoned for an ambush he didn't even know he was taking part in, Kurt Hummel is forced to act as Prince Blaine's personal servant; the alternate option of being locked in the dangeous dungeons until Kurt's innocence is proven not boding well on Blaine's conscience. To learn the "art" (if glorified slavery could be considered such) of servantry, Sam Evans – hot elf with a tragic past and questionable sexuality – is enlisted to teach Kurt the ropes. Kurt does NOT like Prince Blaine. You know. Much . . .

One of Blaine's friends (Knight Wes) thinks Blaine's charity case (Kurt) has something evil up his sleeve (which _can't_ be true!), and that Blaine trusts people too blindly (he doesn't. Really.). Meanwhile, Princess Quinn Fabray of McKinley, the forerunner for Blaine's heart and the queen's crown, actually _does_ have something evil up her sleeve . . . All because she is not about to let some peasant boy from unimportant Glee get in the way of her crown and, more importantly, her impending escape from the cruel dictator of McKinley, Queen Sylvester.

**Ch. 5 Pavarotti**

The scenic mountains rolled by, purple, green, and brown. Lazy cows grazed along hillsides, as sphinxes peered at the cattle lecherously, hidden behind tall blades of grass. Wood nymphs jumped from trees and chased each other through the fields, giggling and waving teasingly at the passing carriage. It was pleasant, beautiful, perfect.

But not for long.

Gradually, life was disappearing from the wild hills. The trees grew blackened, a fog began to collect low in the air, and if a nymph was caught darting between the grasses, she never stopped to chat, only racing faster, as if she had something to hide. Or hide _from_.

Knight Finn Hudson readily accepted that he was not exactly the brightest spark in the pixie's eye, but even _he_ could tell that this was _messed up_.

"They look scared, don't they?" he remarked to his traveling companion, as he caught a brief glimpse of some nymphs watching the carriage, before quickly scampering up a tree. "Like – _really_ scared."

His companion stayed silent, and he turned back around.

Noah Puckerman was watching his mohawked self in the reflection of the glass window, flexing his biceps. His facial expression kept morphing, probably trying to figure out which was more _him_. Puck caught Finn staring and he cocked an eyebrow. "You say something?"

Finn rolled his brown eyes. "Dude. Listen, won't you? This is why Coach Bieste wants to kick you out of the Knights."

It was Puck's turn to roll his eyes. "Beastly is all bark, no bite. I've got nothing to worry about. She knows you guys need my badass battle presence – with me, we don't even have to start a fight, and the opponent's _already _wetting their panties."

Finn was about to answer when something heated against his leg in his pant pocket. He pulled out a handheld mirror, intricately decorated with expensive gems, whose face glowed like a firefly's backside. Puck snorted.

"Careful, Hudson," he said. "Your true _preferences_ are showing."

Deliberately ignoring him, as Finn had been often instructed by Coach Bieste, he waited; the glow dimmed and the eyes of his sometimes-annoying-but-also-pretty-endearing fiancée stared up at him, where a normal mirror would have reflected his own face. But this was no normal mirror.

"Finn!" Rachel exclaimed, no-nonsense. "Have you reached McKinley yet?"

"Not yet," he said, glancing out the window; taking in the bruised sky, dead trees, total absence of life and color and hope. "But I've got a feeling we're almost there." He dragged his eyes back to Rachel. "Is my mom there?"

"No. Your mother and stepfather, as well as my dads, are still undergoing investigation. Listen, Finn . . . are you _sure _Karofsky had anything to do with Kurt's disappearance? I know they've never gotten along well, but doesn't a _kidnapping_ seem a bit . . . out of the blue?"

Finn couldn't even bring himself to feel irritated that this was the reason she called. When people always doubted everything you did, eventually, you became numb to it. "I know what I saw, Rach. Karofsky and Kurt were talking at the beach the day he disappeared, and then, poof, Kurt's gone. If he didn't kidnap him, maybe he knows something. It doesn't hurt to try."

Rachel was still frowning, but her eyes seemed to clear, if only a little. "Well . . . I suppose you're right. I just . . . I just _really_ want Kurt back. He's planning our wedding and though I could obviously do a far superior job on my own, seeing as putting together weddings and/or balls is one of my 652 major talents, I am absolutely swamped with campaigning, not to mention finishing an inaugural speech that will blow King Schuster's ex-wife's speech out of the water – not that it will be _hard_, that woman made _me_ look normal –,"

To be completely honest, Finn was still stuck somewhere around "He's planning our wedding," because that sort of made it sound like Rachel and_ Kurt_ were getting married. Which was fairly disheartening, seeing as Finn was madly in love with Rachel and, anyway, he was pretty sure Kurt didn't swing that way. To lose a girl to a gay dude? Harsh, man. Harsh.

"Alright, white girl, I'm gonna stop you there," a new voice cut in and Finn watched in mild interest as Rachel was shoved out of the way to make room for a new face. Mercedes Jones, black and proud, took the stage.

"Listen to me, Finny-boy." Mercedes spoke slowly, menacingly, as if to a particularly bothersome child. That was how most people spoke to Finn these days. "I don't care how it happens, who you have to talk to, where you have to go – just get Kurt back to Glee in one piece, or I? _Will cut you_."

Finn gulped. Puck snickered.

"I hear you laughing back there, _Puckerman_! Don't think for a second that I can't take you, too!"

Puck quickly sobered and it was Finn's turn to smirk.

Having successfully (and terrifyingly) made her point, Mercedes allowed Rachel's return to the mirror. Finn couldn't be more grateful.

"Well, I suppose I should let you go . . ." Rachel said, voice trailing off, soft and sad.

"Yeah . . ." said Finn. He didn't want to see her go either. She was smiley and happy and outside his carriage window, the world was dark and depressing. He wished they could turn around now, go back to Glee, where he could hold his fiancée in his arms and forget about all the bad in the world . . .

But Kurt was family. And that's that.

"You hang up first," Rachel murmured.

A small smile played around Finn's mouth at the familiar game. "No, you hang up first."

"No, you –,"

"Oh, for God's sake, _shut up_!" Puck snapped, ripping the mirror from Finn's fingers. He pressed a sapphire adorning the handle and the mirror's face was wiped blank.

Finn gaped at him. "Dude. Not cool."

Puck shrugged like he couldn't care less. Which he probably couldn't. Um, why was he Finn's best friend again?

"Hey, look what I smuggled in," Puck whispered, pulling a satchel from under his seat. He held it open to reveal that it was full to the brim with fried cheese balls; a food that had been banned from the Knights of Glee after Knight Matt nearly went into cardiac arrest from eating too many.

Oh, yeah. That's why.

Grinning, Finn reached a quivering hand to taste the awesomeness that was the beautifully unhealthy cheese ball. He hadn't eaten one in months and though he appreciated Coach Beiste's concern for his health, it had been far _too long_ –

_THUMP!_

Cheese balls exploded into the air as the carriage screeched to a halt. Finn's knuckles whitened, clutching desperately at the edge of his seat; his cheeks dusted orange from the flying cheese powder.

". . . The hell?" voiced Puckerman. "Did we hit something?"

_Oh. My. God. Please don't be a repeat of the Mailman Incident . . ._

Puck threw open the door and hopped out. Finn reluctantly followed; he had an image to maintain, after all.

King Schuster's resident chauffer (and royal accompanist), Brad, sat at the head of the carriage, horses' reigns limp on his lap, hands raised in surrender – at the mercy of two teenage girls' sword points.

Another six girls suddenly surrounded Finn and Puck, drawn swords and daggers glinting in the gray sunlight. They each wore clean-cut smocks, red and white and expensive, a cursive "M" embroidered in the fabric; each and every single hair pulled into precise ponytails; jeweled tiaras glittering.

"Surrender your weapons or face the consequences!" a redhead barked.

Slowly, deliberately, Puck and Finn unsheathed their daggers and dropped them to the dirt. Two of the girls darted from their formation to collect the weapons, before immediately rejoining the ranks, faces devoid of any emotion other than sheer will.

"I think I had a dream like this once," Puck murmured. "'Cept the girls were naked."

"Quiet!" said the redhead, again. "State your names and purpose."

Finn gulped, but forced himself to speak. For Kurt. "Uh, I'm Finn Hudson. And this is Noah Puckerman. We're knights from Glee –,"

"Visiting hours are closed," she said.

"Oh, um . . . but we just – we really need to talk to someone," he said.

"Visiting hours are closed," she repeated. Like he was _stupid_.

He hated being treated like he was he stupid.

"Listen," said Puck, "we don't care about your frigging visiting hours and shit. We're going to talk to Karofsky about our homeboy Kurt or –,"

A sharp crackling cut him off. Ginger-hair hiked up her skirts to grab a walkie-talkie from a strap around her thigh ("Hot," Puck muttered dazedly) and held it to her ear. "Yes, Ma'am," she told the device. "That's what he said."

Sharp eyes darted to Puck. "Kurt who?" she asked.

"Wha . . .?"

"Hummel," Finn supplied, seizing his chance. "Kurt Hummel, my stepbrother. He disappeared recently and Dave Karofsky was, like, the last person to talk to him . . ."

She held up a silencing hand and listened intently. The walkie-talkie's crackling grew louder, but Finn could still not make out any distinct words.

Finally, the girl replaced the walkie-talkie with one last, short "Yes, Ma'am." As if receiving a wordless cue, the other girls lowered their swords, but remained at attention.

For a single moment, a heavy silence hung in the even heavier air, the loneliness, the isolation, the fear of this sad land's people blowing with the chilly wind.

"Get back in the carriage," Redhead ordered. "The queen wishes to see you."

-X-

Kurt Hummel was dreaming. Not a good dream, nor a bad. Simply . . . a dream.

In this dream, he sat on a pier, bare feet dangling in the salted ocean. The setting sun cast its dying rays against his face, his hair, his naked calves. A soft breeze, neither warm nor cold, enveloped his body.

Kurt sat, and sat, and sat some more, unsure of why he continued to sit. What was he waiting for?

As if in answer, the surface of the water began to bubble. Kurt cradled his knees to his chest. A woman's head broke the water, slowly followed by the rest of her body, clad in a dress that Kurt somehow knew was made of seaweed. She was beautiful; all long, dark hair, pale skin, and strong limbs, with eyes that were like the ocean itself.

Kurt knew her, of course. He could never forget.

The woman opened her mouth and began to sing a tune so heavenly it could not have come from her body, but rather the sky, the sea, the sun. It floated in the wind, rolled with the waves, enchanted Kurt until the song was all that made sense in the world.

Kurt stood in a trance, just as the woman reached out her smooth, unblemished hand. There was no hesitation; he grasped it.

And then, Kurt was no longer overlooking the ocean, but a meadow, framed by tall trees, and dotted with yellow and white and pink daisies**.** The sun, much higher in the sky than before, illuminated a couple of men running through the paths of wildflowers. Kurt peered closer, thinking there was something oddly familiar about those shining heads of dark hair; one a gleaming chestnut, the other eye-catching ebony.

With a start, he realized that that one of the boys was Kurt himself and the other was Prince Blaine. Except, it didn't _look _like Kurt and Prince Blaine. Gone was the air of formality, the sense of master and servant, the hostility that Kurt felt towards the prince for_ enslaving _him. No, there was . . . something else entirely, and it confused the real Kurt to no end.

Dream Kurt and Blaine were dressed in billowy clothes that Kurt would normally never imagine wearing, but actually looked sort of awesome on him. They were giggling about something, casting each other hopeful glances when they thought the other wasn't looking. Suddenly, Dream Kurt took off at a run, arms thrown out to catch the wind, like the cover of one of those trashy romance novels that Kurt had hidden in a box under his bed. Laughing brightly, Blaine chased after his companion.

Kurt abruptly stopped, causing Blaine to ram into his back, and they went tumbling in mess of tangled limbs and schoolgirl giggles to the grass.

Then, the scene shifted.

Kurt was still watching over the meadow; he wasn't sure how he knew, seeing as it didn't look anything like its previous state. The trees had collapsed in piles of ash and flame, newly spilled blood clotted the grass, smoke hung low in the air – something bad had recently occurred here. Something _terrible_.

Kurt's feet touched down on the dirtied grass. Had he been in the sky? He didn't know, as people in dreams rarely do.

As he walked through the meadow, lifeless bodies materialized from the smoke, marking his pathway. He tried not look at them, but it was like being told "Don't look down" – he couldn't _help_ the way his eyes dragged over the corpses with a sort of twisted magnetism.

All he could feel was detached disgust for the mangled people and creatures, until he glanced up ahead and noticed the head of black curls spread over a particularly bloody patch of burnt grass. Kurt took off running to the body's side.

Blaine's dead gaze bore into his own.

Kurt awoke with a gasp.

It took him but a moment to remember where he was and that it was all a dream. Slowly, the ivory ceiling came into focus, replacing the terrible memory of hollow hazel eyes and sallow cheeks. He disentangled himself from his sheets, hobbled into the beautiful bathroom, and promptly puked up his guts into the marble toilet.

An entire year had passed sine Kurt's mother last visited his dreams. Before then, her presence was a regular occurrence. Most nights, she would emerge from the ocean and sing to him, an enchanting song that Kurt could never remember the melody to come morning. But every once in a while, when Kurt was particularly emotional, she'd offer her hand and take Kurt on a journey of visions that were both nonsensical and entirely too real. Kurt always woke with a churning stomach and mind.

Back then, Kurt didn't put too much thought into the visions she showed him; until one night, he saw his father dropping dead to the floor during a day's work. Unusually perturbed, he canceled all his plans for the day (which consisted mainly of an all-day shopping spree with Mercedes and Tina), in favor of helping his dad out in the shop, even though patching up boats that smelled like fish guts was often not high on his priority list.

If Kurt hadn't been there that day, no one would have known about Burt's heart attack until Kurt returned home in the evening.

And Kurt might be one parent less.

That was the last time Kurt dreamed about his mother. But apparently she was back.

Kurt heaved and heaved, until he was left panting over the toilet with tears streaking down his flaming cheeks, the occasional dry-retch wrenched from his throat like a sob. Feeling like there couldn't be anything possibly left in his body, he dragged his feet over to the bathtub and drew the water, yanking the knobs to cold; the mere thought of warmth made his stomach roll all over again.

He lowered himself into the bath, welcoming the bathwater's bite and allowing it to send shivers down his spine. Even though he was exhausted, he kept his eyes firmly open – terrified of the dead prince still lingering in the back of his mind.

He needed a distraction. He needed something that wouldn't make him sick. He needed something that was sure, and real, and_ out there_ somewhere, waiting for him to return.

Kurt thought of Glee.

He thought of Rachel's two dads, who were both slightly less annoying than Rachel herself, and were generous enough to take Kurt and his family into their home when Burt no longer had the money to support both his stepson's campaigning and pay off a house. They never judged him because they _knew_ – knew what it was like for the world to judge you for something as silly as the sashay in your step, the lilt of your voice.

Kurt thought of the three others that joined him in the Fabulous Four: Mercedes, Tina, and Artie. He recalled the long nights they'd spend whispering their biggest dreams to each other, how for those few hours spent in darkness, anything was possible: shy Tina could ask the popular knight, Mike Chang, to the ball; Mercedes could feel as beautiful as all those tiny girls who lived on a diet of garden salads; wheelchair-bound Artie could dance again one day; and, for once, Kurt could be _normal_.

He thought of the Knights of McKinley, especially Karofsky; though Karofsky wasn't a citizen of Glee, he sure spent enough time there, trading cargo and negotiating treaties with the Glee Knights. He thought of all the insults the McKinlians threw his way whenever they were visiting, thought of the bruises that lined his sides from constantly being pushed around by ignorant boys three times his size. Remembered when Karofsky suddenly stopped being their Neanderthal of a leader, and started being just another scared little kid.

Kurt thought of Finn, and his goofily charming smile and his hugs that were much too big, but at the same time were the perfect size. He remembered all the days he admired Finn from afar, all those times Finn was so nice to him when barely anyone else noticed he was alive, all those stars he wished on that Finn would drop the spoiled brat that was Countess Berry, and love him instead. Remembered cursing the stars and shouting at them, "Brothers wasn't _exactly_ what I had in mind!"

Kurt thought of Burt and his stepmother, Carole, and how much they loved him, and how much _he_ loved _them_. How they had both already suffered one loss too many. How, if he didn't find a way to escape this glorified prison, their hearts would break all over again and he just couldn't_ do_ that to the two best people he knew!

Before he could stop them, before he even realized they were coming, tears had trickled down his face, disappearing into the bathwater with nothing but salt-stained cheeks to prove they'd even been there in the first place – and Kurt wondered if someone, _somewhere_, was thinking of him, too.

-X-

_For Kurt_, Finn chanted in his head, as the carriage pulled them through the desolate McKinley streets. Nothing looked out of the ordinary for a large kingdom, but there was this _feeling_ that stuck in his bones . . . It was like everything here, from the toothed trees to the bright flowers planted on windowsills, was surrounded by a hazy, dark aura that wouldn't even let up in the dead of day. It might have been thrilling to some people, like Puck or Karofsky, or maybe even Kurt on his bitchy days, but Finn was naturally drawn to all things light, and repelled by those of the dark. He knew the chills on the back of his neck, the clamminess of his palms, totally weren't cool for a big shot knight . . . but he couldn't help them. This place scared him.

_For Kurt, for Kurt, for Kurt._

The carriage bumped up and down, as it carried them along a gravelly road that wound deep into the mountainside. Finn watched the blackened trees and shrubs pass his window, wondering, _What happened to you? Who made you like this? _Finn had met Queen Sylvester a couple of times before, and even though she was always a bit out of her mind, she never seemed _evil_.

Well, maybe a little.

Or a lot, now that he thought about it.

Actually, was there ever a time when she_ didn't_ seem evil?

Finn closed his eyes and rested his head against the window, trying to remember: Queen Sylvester always spoke of her "handicapable sister" rather fondly, even if she rarely did so. That was good, right? Wasn't it, like, a rule for evil queens to dislike disabled people?

Finn felt the carriage slowing, and then it completely stopped. He didn't open his eyes.

"This is as near the premises as you are allowed," announced one of the princesses (Finn had managed to remember who they were from his previous visits to McKinley). "All who are proceeding to the esteemed McKinley Castle will now abort the vehicle."

Finn's eyes fluttered open to stare at the three princesses sitting across from him: the redhead from before, a black girl, and a dirty blonde. The other girls had stayed behind to continue guarding McKinley's border.

". . . Ok, I didn't understand, like, _half_ the words you just said," Puck spoke from beside Finn.

Finn snickered; the girls shot him unified glares and he frowned seriously.

"Ok, ok, we're going," he said, hopping from carriage. He was in a dark, dank forest with low-hanging trees and jagged rocks jutting from the swampy floor. The dull buzz of insects was the only sound to be heard.

There was a soft cough; Finn looked up at the box to see Brad's concerned eyes staring down at him, his white knuckles clenching and unclenching over the horse's reigns.

"Will you wait for us here?" Finn asked softly. Brad nodded.

"Enough chitchat; onward," barked the redhead, who was now named "Princess One" in Finn's mind, as she jumped from the cart and marched purposefully into the jungle, her two allies flanking her. They weren't ordinary royalty, it seemed, maneuvering the murky ground with a practiced ease.

Finn and Puck exchanged nervous glances, and hastily scampered after the princesses.

They pushed their way through brambles and thickets, muddy swamps, prickly branches that scratched at their faces unrelentingly. It was all very new: on the only other times Finn visited McKinley Castle, the Glee Knights had strict business with the queen, and were granted a designated McKinley coach driver to carry them safely from their homes, into McKinley's realm, through the dense growth that hid the castle from view, and to the castle doors.

He didn't like this. He didn't like this one bit.

At one point, Puck broke the heavy silence: "So, if you guard the kingdom's borders, and escort possibly dangerous visitors to the castle – what the hell is the point of having knights?" He stumbled over a vine, but Finn caught him by the sleeve, just before he planted his face in a puddle of what looked suspiciously like quicksand.

"Hurry, for we wait for no one," was the only response.

"Bitch," Puck muttered, but was spared no mind except for a few disparaging glances. Finn smirked; Puck lived for reactions, good or bad, and it was pretty funny to watch his shoulders slump at the princesses' lackluster replies.

They walked on.

Eventually, when Finn's feet ached and Puck was severely grouchy after several more failed insults and pickup lines directed at the girls, the princesses seemed to slow. Finn bit back the eager grin that threatened to overtake he face, not wanting to raise his hopes in vain.

But it wasn't in vain.

Because just then, the group pushed through a thick curtain of moss and into the near-blinding daylight.

Finn gasped; they were standing at the foot of a thousand narrow stone steps stretching over steep, rolling hills; atop the highest hill, sat the majestic McKinley Castle, dark turrets and towers puncturing the broken cloud cover.

Princesses One, Two, and Three took off up the steps, still in impeccable formation.

"Yeah, it's ok!" Puck called. "Don't wait for us, or anything! We didn't just run fifty freaking miles through the freaking jungle . . ."

"It's a lost cause, man," Finn said, patting Puck's back. "We might as well get started." He began up the stairs and, groaning, Puck followed.

-X-

"Good _mooorning_, sunshine!" Kurt trilled, skipping into Prince Blaine's sleeping chambers with a cheerfulness that was not, in the_ slightest_ bit, malicious. He yanked open the velvet curtains that covered the splendorous, wall-length window opposite Prince Blaine's four-poster bed, so the morning sun could cast it's glorious golden glow _right_ on the slumbering prince's face. Because what better way to wake than by the blinding, _relentless _light of a new day?

That was Kurt Hummel for you, folks. Always thinking of others.

Moaning low in his throat, Prince Blaine attempted to cover his face with his comforter and sheets, but Kurt quickly pried the blankets away.

"Nuh-uh-uh!" he sing-songed. "You have a busy day ahead of you, my liege. Treaties to sign, princesses to fornicate with, babies to kiss – you know the drill better than I."

"Why," Blaine muttered groggily, "do I get the feeling you're being sarcastic?"

"You, Prince, are a bright one, I knew there was a reason you're being trusted with an entire country –,"

"Call me Blaine."

Kurt faltered. He hadn't been expecting that at _all_.

"I'm sorry?"

"No Prince. Call . . . me . . . Blaine."

With that, Prince Blaine rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. Kurt stared at the back of the prince's black curls, which were disheveled and matted with the remnants of gel. It was both adorable . . . and gross. Back home, Kurt made sure to wash out all his hair products before he went to bed, otherwise the Berrys' sheets would get ruined and, frankly, it wasn't very hygienic.

An idea occurred to Kurt. At first, he brushed it off – he was nobody's slave – but then he remembered his dream, and he felt almost as if he owed the prince this. In a strange, upside-down way.

"Where's your bathroom?" Kurt sighed, noting the two doors, on opposite walls. Prince Blaine's arm made a spastic motion towards the door on the left, so Kurt guessed that was his answer.

He tentatively entered the next room through the door – and immediately faltered in his step. Wide eyes raked every wall, every faucet, every _surface_: the prince's lavatory was every bit as spacious as his bedroom, the bathtub situated in the middle of the tiled floor might have been the size of a small lake, and – oh god – were those _diamonds_ on the chandelier?

"Holy, sweet mother of polyester," Kurt murmured to himself, tentatively walking farther onto the marble floor. He wondered if he should leave his standard issue leather work boots (which were a tragedy in themselves) at the doorway, but figured it would be more disrespectful to walk barefooted and rather opted to tread carefully. The boots creaked, but left no scuff marks; the flooring still so shiny Kurt could nearly see his reflection.

Was this the life Finn and Rachel would be living if they were elected as king and queen? Kurt doubted it. Dalton seemed like it had the best of the best.

Kurt would still make sure to mooch off them, though, just in case.

Kurt pulled a cotton towel from a rack and crossed to the porcelain sinks, lined against a far wall, and quirked one of the polished brass faucets. He ran the towel under the warm water; wrung it out and went back to Blaine's bedside.

He perched himself on the edge of the bed, took a deep breath, and moved the towel to the back of Blaine's head. Blaine visibly shuddered, muscles tensing as a single droplet wound down his neck.

"Shh," Kurt murmured, carefully massaging Blaine's hair. He wasn't sure why he was being so gentle – and, sure, a part of him did want to just yank the guy's hair out. But he couldn't get that image out of his head, the one that made him want to curl up under the covers next to Blaine, and bawl his eyes out, or empty his stomach all over everything again because the picture was just so _wrong_.

A nightmare about a man he didn't know, a man he didn't have many reasons to even like shouldn't bother him this much.

But it did, and there was no changing the fact.

"You really should wash all this gunk out of your hair before you go to bed, you know?" he said softly. "It's gross, and unless you're using the right products, it'll mess up your hair."

Blaine's shoulders rose and dropped in a noncommittal shrug. Kurt continued to wash Blaine's hair in silence, tugging on individual locks to free them of them of the crusty gel. His fingertips grazed over the skin of Blaine's neck wherever a water drop would drip from the hair or towel; and, yes, he probably enjoyed the way it made the prince shiver and his breath stutter _way_ too much. He was a teenage boy – more mature than most others, but still one all the same – and certain things undeniably thrilled him. You know. Kind of. Just because he wasn't exactly on Rachel Berry-prude standards, didn't mean he was some sort of Puckerman-esque sex addict.

Kurt Hummel had _class_, thank you very much.

Kurt lifted the towel to see Blaine's damp curls looking clean and new again. He smirked triumphantly, and pushed on Blaine's shoulder to signal that he should roll over; Blaine obliged, eyes still shut tightly against the wetness. Kurt laid the towel on top of Blaine's head, and began working the water through the mated hair. A hot drip slid down Blaine's forehead and caught on his eyelashes; he whimpered, just the slightest bit, a reluctant noise wrenched from the back of his throat.

Kurt stilled slightly. His heart hammered against his ribs.

"Why are you so tired, anyway?" he asked, continuing with this impromptu hair washing. "You strike me as one of those annoying, up-at-the-crack-of-dawn people. I would know, because I'm one of them. Not that I want to be. But, alas, beauty takes pain!"

Blaine's eyes fluttered open for a moment, just long enough to rake over Kurt's concentrated face. "Well, it certainly pays off," he muttered, closing his eyes again. He hummed – appreciatively, Kurt suspected, because he knew he was awesome at giving scalp massages.

Kurt flushed, at Blaine's words and the fact that_ he_ was causing Blaine to make_ those_ noises . . . He vaguely wondered what other sounds he could elicit from Blaine's pretty mouth . . .

But no. He_ so_ wasn't going there.

Kurt deliberately pictured Sam Evans, who was definitely (or, you know, almost positively) into the same things Kurt was into (i.e. the male anatomy), and of a similar social standing as Kurt. A servant. Not a prince.

"Thank you, but that doesn't exactly answer my question," Kurt said.

For several long moments, Blaine didn't say anything and Kurt wondered if he had fallen back asleep. But then the prince was running a hand over his face in a universal gesture of frustration, and Kurt could see the muscles in his strong jaw working as they gnashed his teeth together. His eyes fluttered open and shut, like he couldn't decide whether to glare at Kurt or just go back to sleep. He settled for something in between: eyes heavily lidded, a slit of hazel peeking through his thick lashes.

"My friend and I, we . . . had a fight, so to speak," he said slowly. "I_ hate_ fighting with him – with anyone, really, and it just upset me a lot. And when I'm upset, I practice my swordsmanship or – um."

"Or?" Kurt prodded gently.

". . . Sing," the prince admitted, a light blush coloring his neck and cheeks. "Music, it . . . it comforts me. I know it's silly and all –,"

"No," Kurt assured. He was indeed surprised by Blaine's confession, but not because he thought a prince shouldn't waste his time with singing. It just seemed impossible, _otherworldly_ that someone so entirely different from Kurt could think something so . . . similar. "Not silly at all. Actually, it . . . makes a lot of sense to me."

Blaine allowed his eyes to drift all the way closed, a wry smirk fixed on his face. "Well, you'd one of the rarities, then." Kurt snorted darkly; Blaine didn't even know how right he was. "Anyway, I got worked up, snuck out to the fields in the middle of the night, and alternated between playing around with some offensive techniques and belting my heart out."

Kurt placed the towel down on the sheets and smoothed Blaine's curls from his forehead, almost absentminded.

"Forgive me if I'm overstepping . . . but what exactly did you and your friend fight about that put you in such a state?" A princess they both thought had pretty hair? Whose birthday celebration had been the biggest? What on earth did the nobility of Dalton fight about when it looked like they had everything and more?

"You," Blaine put it simply.

Oh. Well then.

"I'm flattered?" Kurt said/asked, laughing a little, as he tugged on Blaine's curls. Blaine swatted his hands away playfully, but caught them at the last moment and lazily pulled them to his chest.

Kurt froze, marveling at the feel of another boy's hands wrapped round his, the broad fingers, the strong grip, the calloused fingertips that Kurt was willing to bet were from years of playing a musical instrument, like the guitar. Blaine's hands were rough, but smoother than Kurt's father's – and such a simple touch from a person he barely knew thrilled Kurt and scared him and made him feel things he didn't know he could – and it was all just so_ weird_ because –

"You don't mind touching me," Kurt whispered. "Or being touched by me."

Blaine opened his eyes, looking fairly awake now. He raised his brow. "Should I mind?" he asked.

Kurt hesitated, before hurriedly shaking his head, cursing himself for even considering that there might be a valid reason for people to steer clear of him.

"No, no. It's just a bit . . . different for me, is all."

"Hmm."

Kurt kept his gaze trained on their hands, still lying innocuously against Blaine's pajama-clad chest. He could feel Blaine's heartbeat if he focused hard enough.

"Kurt. . ." Blaine's voice was tinted with concern, "have you been crying?"

The walls had been down too long, Kurt decided. And if they couldn't be salvaged, he'd just have to make some new ones.

Kurt wrenched his hands from Blaine's. He grabbed the towel, distinctly less clean now from old hair gel, and got to his feet. He took his time tossing the towel into the clothes hamper in the far corner of the room, before he finally rounded on Blaine, who was watching him bemusedly.

"Oh, so you think that just because I'm not a knight or something, I must cry all the time, is that it?" Kurt snapped, hand on his jutted hip in a Head Bitch stance he was nearly _known_ for back home. Whenever it was directed towards Finn, he immediately apologized and began to beg forgiveness, whether he'd been in the wrong or not. It was actually quite amusing at times . . .

But Blaine was looking at Kurt with those big puppy dog eyes that just _did _something to Kurt's stomach, and Kurt nearly dropped the act all over again.

"What?" Blaine gasped. "No! No, I didn't mean to insinuate anything of the sort – I just – I was worried about you –,"

"Obviously," Kurt scoffed. "As you imprison me and make me wash your hair –,"

Blaine gaped. "_You did that of your own accord_!" He massaged his temple. "Kurt Hummel . . . I do _not _understand you."

Kurt's eyes most certainly did not soften at this confession, but if they _had_ . . . well, it was only just.

"Yes, well, the sentiment's reciprocated, if it makes you feel better," he said.

They held one another's gaze for a long moment, each prodding and searching and trying to figure out _who_ this boy was.

"You should get dressed," Kurt said at last. "Can you manage it on your own?" The remark didn't come across as snarky as he'd intended. Probably because he actually wouldn't _mind _poking around a prince's closet.

"I think I can," Blaine said, stepping out of him blankets and smiling far too brightly for a normal human being. "Would you please go down to the kitchens and ask the cooks for an order of eggs Benedict? And you can fix yourself whatever you'd like. I'll meet you in the dining room shortly."

It was clearly an order. But it was phrased so _nicely_, and Kurt couldn't figure out a way around it.

Kurt turned and walked out of the prince's room, cursing all the while what had become of him.

-X-

Even after years upon years of training for knighthood, Finn and Puck were still out of breath when they finally reached the top of the stairs. They hung over each other (in a totally non-gay way), fighting to suck air into lungs that seemed much too small.

"_Oh my holy Jewish God_," Puck coughed. "How many stairs _were_ there?"

"_Dunno _. . ." Finn muttered, ". . . _lost track around_ . . ._ fifteen_ . . ."

"Silence," Princess One barked, and the two boys obliged because talking took too much energy anyway.

The princess grasped a lion's head doorknocker and gave three precise knocks on the tall castle door. Immediately, the double doors flew open with a bang. Finn stumbled backwards, even though he was already too far for harm.

A small girl, whose white-blonde hair was cut in a neat bob with a tiara slightly more intricate than the other princesses' resting upon it, stood in the open doorway. Just by the expression on her face, Finn could tell there was something distinctly not normal about her.

And then Kurt's voice was ringing through his ears:_ "Just because someone isn't like you, doesn't mean they're not _normal_, Finn. And if being normal means I have to be a sweaty knight with two brain cells, whose greatest ambition in life is to 'go all the way' with his girlfriend then I'd rather be a freak!"_

Finn cringed, remembering when he had made the really big mistake of saying that Kurt wasn't normal. Kurt's words had cut straight through him, and he thought they were a little harsh; Finn didn't _mean _to say and do and think stupid things. He just . . . did.

"Finn Hudson and Noah Puckerman?" the girl asked. Finn tried not to feel awkward at her slower way of speech. Just because she wasn't like him didn't mean she wasn't normal. "The queen will see you now."

She turned to the Princess One, Two, and Three, whose heads were all bowed as if respecting a superior.

"Well done," she said. "You may return to your posts."

"Thank you, Becky," the three murmured, and then they were flipping back down the stairs, faster than should be possible.

Finn and Puck stared after them.

"And here I was, thinking we were sort of friends," Puck sighed.

"Follow me," the girl – Becky – ordered. It was strange – how she was so tiny and innocent looking, but seemed to command respect. As she turned around and set off into the castle with a purposeful, Finn felt as if he couldn't deny her if he'd wanted to.

"So?" Puck asked. "We gonna follow her or what?"

It scared Finn that his best friend was actually asking his opinion. His fellow knights did not often respect his authority as Captain – except when the stakes were high.

Queen Sylvester knew something about Kurt – Finn's family, his brother, his _friend_. Kurt, who was at the _bottom _of the social ladder in Glee, who got pushed around by anyone and everyone, who'd never been on a boat or been to a different kingdom or anything. How could a _queen_ know who he was, unless she'd seen him since he disappeared? Finn didn't know how or why, but she_ had_ to know something.

"Yeah," Finn said. "We follow her."

The stakes didn't get much higher than this. They couldn't possibly.

-X-

Breakfast in Dalton Castle was not normally a formal affair. But that was before there were about fifty nobles trapped in the castle by a storm that made travelling the seas much too dangerous.

Blaine would have been glad to eat with Kurt, but instead he was forced to sit stiffly diagonal from his father, who was poised at his rightful spot at the head of the long mahogany table. He kept his face stubbornly turned to his golden plate, watching his own expressionless reflection, and trying to pretend that he didn't notice several girls and women from farther down the table batting their eyelashes in his direction.

He glanced up briefly, and caught his sister's eye. Cecilia was sitting ramrod straight, smiling prettily at young men who seemed to try and flex their muscles under her watchful gaze. The princess was only fifteen and already she was scoping the field for potential suitors.

She winked at him. Just a little, a tiny spasm of a steel gray eye, but it made him feel like someone cared.

The doors at the end of the hall opened and dozens of servants flooded the room, dressed in pristine white aprons trimmed with navy, and their red caps. Each held a gleaming silver dish.

Blaine noticed Kurt nervously hovering near Sam and immediately perked up. Blaine smiled brightly and Kurt seemed to relax at the familiar face.

Kurt scurried over, dodging the throngs of servants expertly to place the dish in front of Blaine.

"You never told me I'd have to be a waiter to a bunch of snobby house guests," Kurt mumbled, as he lifted the shining lid from the platter. Not even the sight of fresh eggs Benedict could make Blaine hungry right now, though. Not when he knew Wes and David were so close and yet so far away, chatting war tactics with the other knights, and Quinn Fabray was whispering with her pseudo-sisters and their eyes kept flicking in his direction, and Kurt and Sam were being forced to wear silly uniforms and serve extravagant breakfasts to people not even bothering to spare a "Thank you."

Not when Blaine had been looking forward to sharing a meal with a maybe-civil Kurt, but now had to endure this political mess.

Not when he just really had the urge to sing.

"I didn't know," he muttered, lips close coming close to Kurt's ear when he busied himself with tucking a pristine napkin into Blaine's collar. "I really didn't, I'm sorry. My mother really just came up with the idea last night, as another way to auction me off, and didn't think to inform me."

As if on cue, Anastasia cleared her throat lightly, quirking an eyebrow at her son from across the table. No one else would notice, but Blaine knew his mother and he knew her ways to tell him that he'd had enough fun; it was time to play with the big boys now.

"You should go," Blaine said. "See you soon."

Kurt snorted in a sort of reluctant agreement and left him. Beside Blaine, Sam winked as he finished preparing Blaine's brother's dish of scrambled eggs and turkey bacon, before following Kurt's lead.

"Your servant sure is weird," Winston mumbled.

"Oh yeah?" asked Blaine. He lazily swirled his fork in hollandaise sauce. "How's that?"

"He kind of sounds like a girl."

Cecilia piped, "You shouldn't say that about people. It 's rude."

"So? He's a servant."

"That doesn't make him any less than us," Blaine snapped.

"Then why is he _working_ for us?" Winston countered.

Blaine fingers clenched around his fork.

"Children," murmured Queen Anastasia, airy smile still in place. "Behave yourselves."

They fell silent.

"So, Blaine," began the king in a hushed voice. "I noticed you were quite friendly with Princess Fabray at your ball the other night. Before the, erm, interruption . . ."

Blaine shrugged.

"Blaine Anderson, what has gotten into you?" his mother hissed. "Have you forgotten all your etiquette?"

With a supreme force of will, Blaine forced himself to sit straighter and look more alive. "I'm sorry. I didn't sleep well," he said truthfully.

"When you are king, there will be many a restless night," said Blaine's father. "You mustn't it allow it to affect you."

_Well maybe I don't want to be king. Maybe I never did._

Blaine was shocked at his own thoughts. It must've been the sleep issues, really, because – because being king wasn't an _option_, it was_ tradition_ for the eldest male to take over the kingdom on his eighteenth birthday – he had never questioned Dalton's traditions before, would never have dreamed of it –

"It's not fair," Winston whined, albeit quietly. "I'd make a better king than Blaine."

"Of course you would," agreed Cecilia. "_I_ would make a better king than Blaine." She lowered her eyes to her fruit salad. "I'd make a better king than a lot of people."

"Now you are just being preposterous," King Charles snapped. "I have no doubt you will be a fine queen one day, dear, but it will not be of Dalton. As you will make a strong king, Winston. But for now, drop this nonsense and remember your manners, for we have guests . . ."

Just then, the family noticed the rest of the long table had gone quiet; all eyes were on them. And that was what it took.

As if some invisible switch had been triggered, the façade returned: Cecilia wore a pretty, just flirtatious enough to be acceptable smile; Winston's back was straight as he ate his eggs; Queen Anastasia turned to engage her neighbor – some Lady from some kingdom to the West – in a conversation that was intellectually challenging but not at all controversial; and King Charles' face shifted into calm, authoritative mode – head of the table, of the family, of the country.

It was all so predictable. Blaine could call every move before it was made.

"Please excuse us," Charles said, jovial sounding. "You know how children get!"

The parents in the room chuckled and the kids moaned good-naturedly. Blaine tried to smile.

As chatter gradually picked up again, Blaine heard a soft, "Prince Blaine?" He saw Princess Quinn leaning towards him, so he could_ almost_ see down the front of her dress – not that he was looking – but Blaine had the feeling she was an expert at this sort of pose ; it reminded him a bit of Cecilia's smile. Just scandalous enough to have you interested.

Though the only interested Blaine was in was how Quinn and her sisters were allowed to sit so near the royal family. They weren't _that _important, not really, not in the grand scheme of things. They were just another group of spoiled teenage girls.

"May I have a word?" Quinn continued when Blaine didn't answer immediately.

"I have matters to attend to," Blaine said shortly.

"Please, sir," she implored. "I know it was – immoral of me to make such accusations about your servant –,"

"You implied he was trying to harm a woman."

"And I shouldn't have, I understand. But I would hate for that to come between us. We got on quite well at the ball –,"

"I didn't know you at the ball."

"You don't know me now," Quinn hissed, looking a bit more like the girl he'd seen trying to turn him against Kurt.

That night at the ball, Blaine had thought he might have connected with Quinn – a clever, clearheaded woman from a powerful kingdom. He thought that maybe, if worst came to worst, they could make something work, and she could be his queen.

Then she said those things about Kurt – to Blaine's face, looking him in the eye, with Kurt by his side. And he thought she was a lying snake.

And now there was this sweet, earnest-looking girl practically begging for his forgiveness, gazing into his eyes and baring her heart – but still seeming so close to the edge.

Blaine wasn't sure if he had even seen the real Quinn Fabray yet – and wasn't sure he wanted to, no matter what his father said.

"We will not be having this conversation now," Blaine said.

Quinn looked as if she might continue the argument, blatantly ignore the prince. Was it so silly that Blaine wanted her to, just a bit? That he wanted someone to just _disobey_, for once? Princess Quinn Fabray was certainly volatile enough to, out of anyone Blaine had ever met.

But then she was sitting back in her seat, reunited with that ever-so-deceiving smirk, head held high as the first time he'd seen her. And Blaine was wondering why he felt so disappointed.

Busy watching Quinn reengage her sisters in light conversation, Blaine didn't notice his uncle's black eyes set on him and him alone. Edgar began to speak.

"Tell me, Blaine." Blaine tore his eyes away from Quinn to give his uncle his full attention. "How is that one wood nymph you used to fawn about – what was his name? Jeremy, wasn't it?"

Blaine's heart stopped. No, Edgar couldn't be doing this. Not here, not now, not when Blaine was so close to crumbling already.

"Jeremiah," Blaine managed to choke out.

He was barely aware of the din quieting again. All he saw was Edgar's glittering beetle eyes – and maybe Jeff and Nick's glares directed in Edgar's direction, or David's sympathetic gaze, or Thad's solemn expression.

But he most certainly _didn't_ see Wes' head, downturned in something akin to shame.

And if he perhaps did, he most certainly did not care.

"Ah, yes, that was the name. Quite strapping young lad, wasn't he? Bone structure of an aristocrat."

"I wouldn't have noticed," Blaine forced from his abruptly parched lips.

"I remember Jeremiah!" chortled Charles. "He really was all you could talk about Blaine! You looked up to that boy like he was the sun itself."

Blaine cleared his throat, trying with all his might to loosen the knotted chords that seemed to be lacing it closed.

"Er, yes, Jeremiah and I were friends –,"

"I'd say you were _more _than friends," smirked Edgar.

Blaine flinched.

"Indeed, Edgar, they were almost like brothers!" Charles boomed. Blaine flinched just a little bit harder. "Couldn't find one without the other for a time." He chuckled; the guests followed suit.

"Absolutely no exaggeration," giggled Cecilia, leaning in the direction of a few handsome youths hanging on her every word. "I can tell you the most _darling_ stories . . ."

"I don't believe that will be necessary," Blaine said through a painful smile.

"But you two were so adorable!"

"I was fifteen, not five," he pointed out. "And Jeremiah was nineteen."

"That was one handsome nymph," she sighed dreamily. "Why did you quit bringing him around again?"

"Yes, Blaine, tell us?" Edgar egged.

Blaine eye's met those of his uncles – and he saw something there, something deeper than this lighthearted, slightly nostalgic conversation: a sort of knowingness. And power. Too much power.

Uncle Edgar _knew_.

Blaine wasn't sure how, or to what extent, but his uncle _knew_ and he wanted Blaine to know that he knew, that the held his nephew's fate in his twisted hands.

Blaine was being blackmailed and he didn't even know _why_.

"People grow apart," Blaine whispered, still staring into his uncle's eyes like a fly drawn into a spider's web. "That's how it happened for us."

Edgar smirked. The family continued to trade stories with the guests.

"You know, now that I think about it," Edgar said, loud once again, practically demanding everyone else stop their own conversations and listen to _him_, "Jeremiah rather resembled that new servant of yours, didn't he?"

Blaine stood. Each set of eyes on his body felt like a needle pricking skin.

He needed out. But his feet were lead, his head delirious with the echo of _He knows_.

Finally, his mother's mask cracked: her eyes widened, she frowned deeply. Through his haze, it brought Blaine a sort of sick sense of achievement.

"It was an honor to join you all this morning," he said, fighting with everything he had to keep his cool. His gaze fixed itself on a spot of hollandaise sauce that stained his napkin. "I have to go."

"Blaine Anderson, sit down this instant," hissed his mother, but Blaine was already walking away, leaving their gob smacked faces to gape after him in utter bewilderment.

Blaine burst from the formal dining hall – the huge mahogany doors drifted shut behind him, closing with a sound like thunder or madness, and it seemed to spur him on to the right, rather than left to his bed chambers or straight on toward the grounds. He rounded a corner and pushed through a narrow door, almost unnoticeable as it blended into the wall.

The Great Kitchen's pristine, shining countertops gleamed under the artificial light, nearly sparkling. Blaine stepped farther into the room, inhaling the smell of a fresh batch of hash browns being taken off the stove. Servants buzzed around, chitchatting and goofing off, so different from the stuffy nobility on the other side of the wall.

Sam once told Blaine that the servants always relished any chance to use the Great Kitchen. It was so much bigger than the regular kitchens and gave them space to breathe. Vaguely, Blaine thought he might have to make bigger kitchens when he became King.

"Um, excuse me?" he asked an older woman – Shelley was her name, she was on the cleaning staff – as she hustled by with a broom and dustbin. "Do you happen to know where Kurt Hummel is?"

Shelley gestured somewhere over his shoulder, not looking away from her work. "Um, I think I saw him cutting carrots with Evans."

"Thank you." Blaine just saw her glance up, eyes widening in recognition, before he walked past her.

None of the servants seemed to notice him amongst their midst, as immersed in work as they were. It was . . . nice.

He heard the tinkling laugh before he saw its source. There, at an island in the center of the room, Kurt's wrist was a blur, slapping the knife against a cutting board, chopping carrots.

"Dude, seriously," Sam was saying from Kurt's side, "you are like a freaking _ninja_."

"Oh, this?" Kurt smirked, swiping the carrot bits to the side with practiced flick of his knife. "This is nothing. You should see me with a couple of swords . . ."

"You? Man, I never would have guessed it!"

A blush stained Kurt's cheekbones. Blaine took that as his cue.

"Hi, guys!" he beamed, walking over to the pair.

Sam glanced up.

"Oh, hey, Blaine," he said. He did a double-take. "_Blaine_! What are you doing here?"

"Seriously," Kurt said as he set down his knife. "Don't you have praises to listen to others sing to you?"

Blaine was about 75 percent sure Kurt was just joking, but he frowned anyway. "They won't be singing me praises for a long while, actually. I kind of . . . stormed out of there. It was rather dramatic."

"Seriously?" Sam gaped. "_Badass_."

Blaine flushed at the course language – and maybe the admiration painted on Sam's face, too.

"Trust me when I say it wasn't anything to be proud of," Blaine felt the need to add.

"Anyway," he continued, fixing his gaze on Kurt, "I can't very well go back in there now, so your presence is no longer needed here. Would you care to accompany me to the grounds?"

Kurt looked as if he might protest – but then their eyes locked. And maybe he saw a little bit of Blaine's inner turmoil, or maybe the fight was dripping out of him, or maybe there was no reason at all, but he nodded.

"Fantastic!" Blaine grinned. "Do you care to leave now?"

"I guess." Kurt handed off the knife to Sam, adding a firm, "_Don't_ try to go as fast as I did, ok?" Sam laughingly agreed.

On the trek back through the kitchen, a few women called out their goodbyes to Kurt, who waggled his fingers back and made remarks that must have been inside jokes.

Outside of the grand room, setting off to the Entrance Hall, Blaine asked, "You're making friends, then?"

"I know a fake smile when I see one, you know."

Blaine whipped his head around. Kurt was staring steadfastly ahead.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Don't play dumb, Prince. You may be able to fool your many lackeys, or minions, or whatever it is you have, but I've been unhappy enough in my life to know when someone else is."

Blaine looked ahead again. "Oh."

There was silence for a minute, until Kurt broke it.

"Care to share?"

"It's . . . complicated," Blaine sighed. "I just feel a bit . . . trapped. Do you know how that is?"

"Blaine, look at me," Kurt said softly. Blaine's eyes flickered to him. "Look where I am. Of course I know how it feels to be trapped."

Blaine downcast his eyes, brow furrowing. He wetted his lips.

"Right, sorry, that was stupid."

"It's ok, I get it."

Did he? Did he _really_?

They walked into the Entrance Hall, as grand and tasteful as every other part of Dalton Castle, with its winding marble staircases, antique chandelier hanging from the patterned ceiling tiles, and extravagant stained-glass windows filtering light.

Any prince would kill to live in a place such as this.

The doors opened when Kurt and Blaine approached. They left the castle and went out onto the grounds.

The lawns were neat, manicured, and abounding with flowerbeds. Stone water fountains of dolphins, lions, and angels spewed streams of water. A stone path cut the lawns in half; it wound south, down to the main village, which just visible in all its quaintness at the base of the mountain, and the ocean just beyond that. The eastern border of the castle grounds was a thickly packed forest, and to the west were green, rolling hills.

"This looks a lot different when you're not being dragged through it against your will," Kurt remarked.

Blaine wasn't sure whether to laugh or not, so he simply said, "I've never been across the sea. Is it nice?"

"I'm not really one to ask. Before this whole debacle, I'd never really left Glee before."

"Ah." Blaine went and sat upon the edge of a nearby fountain. Kurt followed, though he kept a sizable distance between their bodies. "What's Glee like, then?"

"It's . . . nice, I guess. Not much compared to this place." He gestured with one hand around him, towards the sun, the earth, the woods. "You have the forest and the ocean, which is cool. We only have one. I love the ocean, don't get me wrong, but it can get a bit . . . dull, living on the beach. There's only so much you can do."

He looked out at the sparkling waters.

"Still, I can't imagine not seeing that every day. I always thought I might travel it one day, you know? Just take off in a boat, see where it led me . . ." He glanced at Blaine, suddenly looking self-conscious. "And here I am, shooting off my mouth."

"No, no, I don't mind!" Blaine hastened to assure. In fact, he was a bit fascinated. Kurt spoke with this sort of longing, this _passion_ that Blaine rarely saw in his family and friends. At the very least, it distracted him from the punishment he knew was coming his way.

But the damage appeared to be done, and Kurt didn't make to speak again.

So they sat there, watching the village and the sea, the fountain water misting their necks, the quiet nearly companionable. Blaine wanted to ask Kurt why he had been crying earlier, if it had to do with feeling trapped. He didn't though. They were getting along too well.

"Hear that?" Kurt suddenly asked.

"Hear what?"

"Shh. Just listen."

Blaine kept quiet and eventually he heard the faint trill of a bird's song.

"Watch this," Kurt whispered. He let out a long, clear whistle. After a moment, the bird whistled back.

Blaine smiled.

Kurt whistled a jaunty little tune, and the bird immediately responded. They kept up the wordless conversation effortlessly. Blaine wondered what they could possibly talk about; maybe the weather, or the ocean. Maybe Kurt was continuing the story he felt he couldn't finish with Blaine.

And that's when Blaine had an idea. 

"Hey!" he exclaimed. Kurt jumped.

"Do you mind?" he snapped. "I was kind of in the middle of something –,"

"Do you want to see something really cool? It's kind of deep in the forest, though."

"Blaine. I am already being ordered around this place like a pack mule, I am _not_ walking through the dark, dangerous woods, possibly messing up my hair or getting eaten, just to see something 'really cool' –,"

"No, it's ok." Blaine jumped to his feet, grabbing Kurt's hand on the way up. Kurt went silent, gawking at their linked hands. Blaine remembered that morning, when Kurt seemed so shocked that Blaine didn't mind touching him. "Come on, I know a shortcut."

-X-

Finn shifted on the rickety stool, which was in no way built for a man of his stature. He stared longingly at the lush chair on the other side of the desk, with its royal purple cushions, and high back adorned with jewels.

"Do you think Queen Sylvester would mind if I borrowed her chair for a little bit?" Finn muttered to Puck, who sat by his side.

"Dude, we've _met_ Queen Sylvester," Puck said, rolling his eyes. "She'd mind."

"You're right, I guess," Finn said. Still, he cast the chair his best puppy-dog eyes, the ones that always worked on Rachel and his mom, and sometimes Kurt. Apparently inanimate objects had stronger resolve, though; the chair stayed where it was.

The door at the front of the office opened just then, and the Finn and Puck flew to their feet, expecting the queen. But it was just Becky, pushing a hulking someone into the room and onto the last available stool.

"Watch it!" the young man cried, rubbing his butt. "I've got to sit on this thing."

Both Finn and Puck's jaws hit the floor.

"_Karofsky_?" they gasped.

David Karofsky looked up, his eyes widening in recognition.

"The queen will be with you shortly," Becky said, leaving them alone.

"Puckerman, Hudson –," Karofsky ran a hand through his tousled hair. "What are you guys doing here? Is there some sort of negotiation going on?" The boys shook their heads. "Then do you know why I'm here?" Again, they shook their heads no. "Do you at least know why _you're_ here?"

Finn was about to tell him that they didn't know anything, when Puck said, "We came to see you actually. I don't know if you've heard, but Finn's bro is missing."

Karofsky's eyes grew twice their size. "Hummel is – but – how?"

Puck scoffed. "If we knew how, we wouldn't be here, would we? All we know is that Finn says he saw you talking to Kurt, and then Kurt's gone. Kinda suspicious, eh?"

"I didn't touch him, if that's what you're thinking!" Karofsky's voice rose near a shout.

"Whoa, whoa, calm your shit," said Puck. "No one was accusing you of anything."

"Well," Finn said diplomatically, "you kind of _were_ accusing him –,"

_BANG! _

A door behind the queen's chair flew open and there, in all her six foot, blonde-haired, purple-caped glory, stood Queen Sylvester.

Finn, Puck, and Karofsky scrambled to their feet, argument long forgotten in the face of a woman that radiated such authority and _power_.

Finn's brown eyes locked with the queen's icy blue. His mouth ran dry, blood froze in his veins. It was like staring down the devil himself.

"Gentleman," Queen Sylvester said at last.

"My lady," the boys chorused, falling to their knees.

"Glad to see Schuester is still teaching some semblance of manners in that medieval pigsty he runs," Queen Sylvester drawled, and they heard her striding to her seat. They didn't dare raise their heads.

"Well?" Queen Sylvester said. "Are you just going to sit there like crippled baboons all day? I have better things to be doing, you know."

Muttering "No, ma'am!" and "Sorry, miss," and "Pardon us, really," they boys tripped over themselves to their stools.

As they sat, the queen remained still, staring them down. Finn wondered if she was doing this on purpose – trying to heighten the anticipation or something. Maybe she just enjoyed watching them quake.

"Kurt Hummel," she finally said. All three pairs on eyes flickered upward in surprise. "I understand he's your stepbrother, Skyscraper?"

Finn guessed she was talking to him and he nodded.

"And he just disappeared from Glee," she stated.

"Yes, Ma'am," Finn said. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but he couldn't help asking, the question almost wrenched from his throat . . . "Why, have you seen him?"

Queen Sylvester examined him over her folded fingers. Her eyes seemed to be searching his very soul.

"No," she said finally.

Finn's heart deflated as quickly as a popped balloon.

"So Karofsky was the last person seen talking to Hummel, huh?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Finn mumbled.

"But I didn't touch him, I swear!" Karofsky exclaimed. "I don't know what the heck happened to him –,"

"Stop you blubbering, it's pathetic," she snapped. "Now, what exactly were you two talking about?"

Finn leaned forward in interest. Karofsky's eyes darted to and fro, dancing around his fellow knights' and the queen's eyes. To Finn, he looked like a cornered farm animal.

"Nothing really – we were just – at the same place at the same time," Karofsky finally muttered, shrinking in on himself.

Queen Sylvester's plucked eyebrows rose into her severe hairline.

"Look," said Karofsky, voice stronger but also defensive, "I don't even know why I'm here, ok? I was starting up a training course with Captain Tenaka and the boys, and suddenly carted off by some demonic princesses. Please, just – why am I here?"

"Because I wished to speak with you," the queen simply stated. "Do you _need_ a more valid reason, David?"

His eyes dropped. "No, Ma'am."

"Atta boy." Queen Sylvester stood from her seat and walked around the desk, behind the boys, to look at a potted plant on a shelf. It was brown, droopy, and for the first time, Finn noticed there were no windows in this room.

She carefully took a wrinkled, fallen leaf between her long fingers.

"Karofsky, you and Hummel come from very different circles, do you not?" she asked, still fixed on examining the leaf. She didn't give him a chance to answer. "What on earth would bring you to the same place at the same time?"

"He's Finn's stepbrother, I guess," Karofsky said. "When I'm dealing with Hudson, Hummel sort of comes along with the package."

"That's BS!" Puck burst. Finn shied away. An angry Puck was something no sane man wanted to deal with. "Like you don't _actively_ seek him out."

"I don't! He gets in the way –,"

"Cut the crap, Karofsky! You push him around all the time, you get all your McKinley buddies to gang up on him and his friends – damn it, I've gotten so sick of it!"

"If you were sick of it, why didn't you say anything?" snapped Karofsky.

Puck fell silent.

Finn knew how he felt. He was ashamed, too.

Queen Sylvester suddenly said, "I'm sure Glee is full of puny wimps – hell, you're sitting with two of them – why did you single out Hummel?"

"I didn't single him out . . ." Karofsky mumbled.

The queen advanced on them. She still held the leaf in a delicate grasp.

"I can smell lies, Karofsky," she said. Her voice was more than a whisper, or maybe less; it was the air itself.

Karofsky looked terrified. Finn couldn't blame him; he felt a little short of breath himself.

"You're bluffing," Karofsky said boldly, though his voice quavered.

With just her thumb and forefinger, Sylvester crushed the dead leaf. Its remains rained down around her feet.

"Would you like to test that theory?" she asked.

Karofsky gulped.

"I can't stand him," he finally admitted. "He always walks around that place like he owns the joint – like he's so freaking proud of who – _what_ he is and it always got so under my skin. And then he'd always be making these little snide remarks about my hair, or weight, or intelligence or something – I'm not even that dumb! Just 'cause I don't worship the dictionary like he does –,"

He was winding himself up now. Finn could tell from the rising blotches of color in his cheeks, his tensed jaw.

"And then he always dressed so weird and I just – I didn't like it! Why couldn't he at least _try_ to be normal, like I do?"

"What do you mean, 'like you do'?" Queen Sylvester cut in.

His eyes zeroed in on her. "I – what?"

"You said that he could try to be normal, like you do. How are you abnormal?"

"I – I didn't mean it any way."

Sylvester watched him closely. "What were you talking about with him the day he disappeared?"

"It wasn't anything –,"

"You both looked really upset," Finn suddenly remembered. "I was going to go see what was going on, but something distracted me –,"

Puck coughed into his fist. Finn glared at him, oblivious to Dave's pleading gaze.

"Interesting," the queen drawled. "What got your granny panties in a twist, Karofsky? Lover's quarrel?"

Finn expected Karofsky to just scoff at such predictable needling – going the gay route was a way to get under any teenage boy's skin – but, instead, he all too visibly cringed.

"N-no!" he stuttered. But the damage was done. Queen Sylvester looked like she'd just been told King Schuester was going to stop using hair gel.

Queen Sylvester whispered, a strange gleam in those glowing eyes, "Are you dating Kurt Hummel, Mr. Karofsky?"

Finn's eyes nearly fell off his face, they widened so much.

Karofsky . . . dating . . . _wha_'?

"I – no, of course not!" Karofsky cried.

"Do you wish you were dating Kurt Hummel?"

"No," he said vehemently. Finn began to relax. But then –

"Have you kissed him?"

"What?" Karofsky said automatically, voice cracking.

Queen Sylvester smirked.

"I mean, no!" he corrected. "Why would we – I'm not –,"

But the queen was no longer listening. She walked back around them to her desk, purpose in each long stride.

"It was an accident!" Dave blurted. "I didn't _mean_ to kiss him!"

Finn sat in shock. Dave Karofsky _kissed_ Kurt? But . . . that didn't make sense. You had to be gay to kiss a boy, right?

Did that make . . . Karofsky . . .?

"Dude," Puck murmured, sounding just as tripped out as Finn felt.

"Please," Dave was whimpering. "_Please_ just don't tell my dad."

"I find your big gay sob story sickening and irrelevant," Sylvester said matter-of-factly.

She lifted her arm then; her robe sleeve shimmed down to her elbow, revealing a thick metal band that circled her wrist. She spoke directly to it.

"Becky Jackson, come in? Yes, I have everything I need. If you would please escort these men out of my office."

"_What_?" Puck exclaimed. "I thought you were going to help us find Kurt!"

"Your idiotic misunderstanding is not my problem."

Finn couldn't comprehend what was happening. It was as if his brain was working even slower than usual. "But then – why did you –?"

The door behind the boys opened and before they could even turn in their seats, two teenage girls were at each knight's side, pulling his arms behind his back and forcibly lugging him to his feet.

"Ow!" Finn shrieked when a girl twisted his arm. "Watch it!"

"Get your hands off me!" Puck shouted, straining against the iron grip of the princesses. They were stronger than they looked – unbelievably so.

Karofsky tried to kick a girl's shin, but the way she held him allowed no room for struggle.

"Take them to the dungeons," Sylvester ordered.

"NO!" Finn yelled, for the first time. "You can't arrest us, we haven't done anything wrong!" Hot, indignant tears burned the back of his eyes. "This isn't right!"

With a scowl, Sylvester moved so she was right in Finn's face. He could smell her minty breath, could count every blonde eyelash above those cold, cold eyes.

"I've got a newsflash for you, Hudson," she whispered. "You're in McKinley now. This isn't Glee. Just like I'm not Will Schuester and I couldn't care less about what's _right_."

-X-

All the nerve endings in Kurt's entire body seemed to have regrouped in his right hand. The fingers locked with Blaine's were on fire, the strangest and most pleasant fire Kurt had ever known.

Blaine dragged him through the forest, where low-hanging tree boughs swatted at his hair and the damp soil stained his work boots. He didn't understand how the prince, whose clothes were probably worth more than the entirety of Glee, could not seem to care about the dirt.

Plus, Blaine promised a short cut. This journey was in no way short, and the only cutting being done was when a particularly jagged branch, bent at a strange angle, sliced across Kurt's cheekbone.

Kurt hissed, reaching his free hand to his face; he couldn't tell if the skin had broken. But if it left mark? _Someone_ was going to bleed.

"_Blaine_," Kurt wheezed. He really needed to work out. "_This is not a short cut_."

"No, no, we're here," Blaine said, slowing to a stop.

Kurt looked up. Stretching out before them was a thick stone wall, overgrown with moss and vines.

"I was expecting better," Kurt confessed.

Blaine laughed as if he was telling a joke, and walked forward, releasing Kurt's hand. It felt cold all of a sudden, but still tingly.

"I found this when I was ten," Blaine said. He was examining the wall closely. "I'd been scolded badly by my mother and was _so_ embarrassed. I ran into the forest, vowing never to return –," Kurt smiled softly. He had been that dramatic as a ten-year-old. Hell, he was that dramatic _now_. "– when I found the wall. It seemed very mystical to me, and also very tall – I was even shorter back then, mind you. I tried to climb it, but it was as if it wouldn't _let _me. I can climb almost anything, you see."

Kurt found himself hanging on Blaine's every word. "And then?"

"A palace guard found me and escorted me home," he said with a wry smile. "But the next few chances I was alone – and that wasn't very often – I snuck out to go searching for it again. I didn't find it until about the fifth or sixth time, and by then I was marking my path so I wouldn't lose it again. I tried climbing the wall . . . but instead I found," – he pushed aside a thick curtain of moss – "a door."

And there was one. Stone and blending perfectly into the wall, with a rusted knocker and a sort of quaint antiqueness to it.

"Where does it lead?" Kurt asked quietly, inching forward.

Blaine grinned; he'd probably been waiting for that question.

"Why don't I show you?"

He tugged on the knocker and the door slowly edged open. It looked like it wouldn't open all the way, leaving just enough room for a relatively thin person.

"I've been doing this for years," Blaine said, one foot through the door already. "I swear it's safe."

He disappeared entirely.

Kurt looked up at the canopy of trees. _Oh what the hell_, he thought and stepped through the door himself.

They were in a dank stone tunnel with a low ceiling and a narrow dirt pathway. Kurt was forced to hunch over, and even Blaine bowed his head. The moist air hung heavy over them.

Just then, the door slammed shut and Kurt and Blaine were bathed in pitch blackness.

"Blaine!" Kurt hissed. "Blaine, oh my god, I can't _see_, Blaine!"

A hand wrapped around his. He gripped it hard.

"Shh," whispered Blaine. "It's ok, I promise, I do this all the time."

"I swear to all things you find holy, Blaine Anderson, if I am eaten, I will personally resurrect myself and haunt you until you are driven so mad with regret that you will feed yourself to the same beast that took my life –,"

A flicker, and then Kurt could see Blaine's teasing smile, and his free hand cupping a cheap match alit with a feeble flame.

"Still believe monsters live in the dark, Kurt?" he asked.

Kurt searched for the right words. He needed to show that arrogant prince, give him a piece of what he was made of . . .

"You carry matches around with you? Is that safe?"

Lame. So, so lame.

Blaine sighed overdramatically. "I just can't win with you, can I?" He tugged Kurt's hand. "Come on."

Kurt followed dumbly, not wishing to make a greater fool of himself.

They walked along, the only sound being their breathing and the dull pad of boots on packed dirt. Blaine didn't let go of Kurt's hand once.

"Here we are," Blaine spoke at last. A door glowed in the dim firelight; it was identical to the last one – even to the point of being located on the same wall.

"Is there a door that takes you to the other side of the wall?" Kurt asked.

Blaine snuffed out the candle and let go of Kurt's hand. Kurt tried to focus on Blaine's breathing, the shuffling of the prince's feet as he braced his body to shoulder open the door – just to remind himself, in the darkness, that he wasn't alone.

"I don't know." Blaine's voice was slightly strained as he pushed. "I've never gone far enough to find out. I'm too – come on, darn it – too chicken."

The door budged, finally, and they had light again. Blaine slipped out, followed closely by Kurt.

"Ok, we are _not_ doing that again," Kurt said, breathing in the glorious oxygen and natural sunlight. "Too creepy. Now where are . . .?"

But the question died in his throat. They were in a meadow, a beautiful meadow. The trees were thinner here, so the blue sky and bright sun were visible, and the grass between patches of dirt was long and thick, peppered with daisies. A sort of a fragile stillness hung about this place; it was as if even the wind felt improper blowing through here.

This clearing, it was . . . familiar. Kurt had seen it before. But how could he have?

"Lovely, isn't it?" Blaine asked, drinking in the sight. "I told you I like to sing, and train with my sword when I'm upset. But if I have time, which I rarely do . . . I like to come here. It sort of . . . puts everything else to shame."

"It's lovely," Kurt agreed.

"You haven't seen anything yet," Blaine said, running farther into the clearing. He gave a low whistle.

For a long minute, there was just more of the same silence. Then a bird, a yellow canary to be exact, fluttered from the leaves of a tree and landed on Blaine's shoulder.

"Hey, buddy," Blaine whispered, reaching up a single finger to stroke the bird's head feathers. "You guys are ok. It's just me."

The bird rubbed against Blaine's cheek once, before letting out series of long, high trills.

It was something from a storybook, Kurt thought as he looked around, it must have been. Something this strange and uniquely wondrous couldn't have been real.

Dozens of canaries – maybe a hundred of them in all, maybe more – were materializing on the tree branches, poking their heads from the tufts of grass, flying out of seemingly nowhere to land on Blaine. Kurt spun around, and there were more on the wall, hanging on to jutting stone bricks and loose vines. Yellow, yellow everywhere, sun drops given life through these animals, and it was – it was _magical_, but it wasn't; it was real, and normal, and ordinary, except _not_.

And then there was the music. The canaries were tweeting and trilling, each one of them holding a different melody, each melody melding into one seamless song. Kurt had thought that noise didn't belong here – but _this_ noise, this _music_ did. It was like the air, or the sun, or the flowers; it didn't disturb the meadow because it_ was_ the meadow.

Kurt turned again to see the birds perched on Blaine's outstretched arms; one for every inch of him, from his shoulders to his wrists. It looked like he had sprouted yellow wings of his own.

"_Beautiful,"_ Kurt murmured.

"It is, isn't it?" Blaine said. "It took me forever to get them to trust me enough to come out of hiding, let alone to be comfortable with this." He took a step and the birds scattered in all different directions, but he didn't seem bothered. "Do you want to see my favorite?"

Kurt nodded, looking up at the sky as a bird flew right over him.

"Over here."

Blaine was crouched at the base of a spruce tree. Kurt hurried over, watching the prince reach into a tuft of grass to pull from it another canary, who was already chirping indignantly and pecking at Blaine's hand.

"Shh, baby, shh," Blaine soothed, clutching the bird in his fist. "Calm down, Pav, it's only me."

The bird eventually did still in its erratic movements. It blinked those beetle black eyes up at Blaine; they stared at one another long and hard. The bird chirped again, softer, almost like a request.

Blaine unfurled his fist and the bird hopped around his palm happily.

"I nicknamed him Pavarotti," Blaine told Kurt. Kurt raised an eyebrow, and Blaine further explained, dropping his voice to a whisper, "I thought he deserved an ostentatious name. Poor guy – his wings are you clipped, you see, I'm not sure how or when it happened, they were like that when I first found him. He gets a bit pushed around by the stronger birds because of it, but he's a little star inside, I can just tell."

"I know just how you feel, little guy," Kurt said, crouching down to their level. "That's pretty much the story of my life."

The bird regarded Kurt curiously, hopping closer on Blaine's hand.

Kurt held out his finger. Pavarotti studied it closely before seeming to decide it was safe, and fluttering onto it.

"But we're gonna outshine them all, aren't we?" Kurt said seriously. "It's the little guys like us they need to watch out for."

Pavarotti tweeted again, as if to say, _"Ain't that the truth."_

"He likes you," said Blaine. "He's not normally so good with strangers. Well, I actually wouldn't know, seeing as you're the only person I've ever brought here. But he didn't take nearly so kindly to me."

Kurt's lips quirked. "Well that's two ways we're alike then, isn't it?"

Blaine chuckled, and Kurt found himself gland that the prince didn't take offense.

"Kurt . . ." Blaine started. "Would you . . . would you like to take Pavarotti back to the castle with us?"

Kurt turned confused eyes on him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm always worried each time I leave and come back, that Pavarotti's disability will have gotten the best of him and he won't have been able to get food . . . I've played around with the idea of taking him home with me, but I know my parents would find out and my mother is not big on pets. But if you took him in, I don't think they'd notice; they don't want anything to do with you!" He beamed, then grimaced. "No offense."

"None taken," Kurt said. "But I . . . I don't know, Blaine."

He had to admit, even to himself, that thought of having someone else around was appealing. Pavarotti was only a bird . . . but Kurt would take anything to make his room less lonely at night.

"Is that even a good idea?" he asked. "I mean, Pavarotti may not be as strong as the other birds, but he's still wild. He doesn't belong cooped up in there."

"Well . . . no," Blaine agreed, giving Pavarotti a tiny nudge as the bird struggled to climb the sleeve of Kurt's shirt to his shoulder. "But he doesn't really belong here either. At least with you, he doesn't have to be alone anymore."

Kurt locked eyes with Blaine. He wondered if that was supposed to be some deep metaphor, or if he was just over thinking things, or if maybe Blaine was.

Kurt decided that, for once in his life, he didn't really care.

-X-

Across the sea, in a windowless office in a secluded castle on a high mountain, a queen who wasn't quite evil but was far from good plotted Kurt Hummel's downfall.

**-X-**

**-X-**

**A/N: **. . . So is this the part where I tell you I am terrible at regular updates?

I am so sorry. So, so sorry. But I am so apologetic. This is the longest I've gone without updating a story; I'm embarrassed, I'm sorry, and I'm so thankful to everyone's patience and kind/prodding words. I wish I had worked harder for anyone reading this – but, alas, the past is the past.

On another note, even in alternate universes, Blaine makes bird metaphors.

**Next Chapter: **A rumor is spread, and a bit of Blaine's past surfaces.


End file.
